The Plague
by Richefic
Summary: AU. Set in the same Universe as The Quickening. As Richie's 100th birthday approaches, events take an unexpected turn, and he is forced confront his past and address his future. Will Mac, Methos, Connor and Amanda be able to help?
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer – Not mine. Not cannon either. Richie lives.

AN- I wanted to write a story where Mac and Richie were completely comfortable in their relationship with each other. In order to do that, I have set it in the future around Richie's 100th birthday. The future I portray is designed purely to facilitate that storyline and is not intended as social or political comment, or as a reflection of any specific country.

!!!

It was hot out in the desert. Richie supposed that shouldn't come as much of a surprise. But this dry, acrid, heat, that burnt the back of your throat when you took a breath, and leeched the moisture from your eyeballs, leaving them feeling tight and sore, was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And in his one hundred years he had experienced quite a bit.

"Doctor, Monsieur le Doctor."

A hand tugged at the hem of his robes and Richie looked down to see what was needed.

"Water, please, do you have water?" The old woman, lying on the bare ground, now too weak to rise, looked up at him, her eyes very large in her thin gaunt, face.

"Here you are," He spoke in the local dialect, bending down to allow the woman to drink from the canteen he was carrying. "Feel better, now?"

She nodded, smiling broadly showing a gap, where her two front teeth should be. "Thank you, grandson."

Richie nodded and smiled, but inside his soul contracted a little. The woman was no more than her mid fifties, made old before her time by poor diet and harsh living conditions. She was young enough to be his daughter. And, weak and tired as she was, she would be lucky to survive past the end of the week. Rising up, he surveyed the acres of white tents, that made up this refugee city. A little oasis of food aid, supplies of clean water, and hope in a ravaged landscape.

"You know, this is _not_ how I expected to spend my 100th birthday." He spoke to the man beside him.

"As I recall, _this _was entirely _your _idea," Methos replied. "And you won't be 100 for another couple of weeks."

"I'm this close to a century and you want to argue about semantics?"

"Sometimes, its all I have," Methos made a face. "That, and sand in my .. shorts."

"You're not wearing any shorts."

"Well, I should be, then I wouldn't have sand in places it has no business being," Methos grumbled. "I always hated the desert."

"So, why did you come? I could have managed by myself."

"You could have. But you're glad I'm here."

"You think?" Richie raised a brow. "You snore, you know. A person might think that after all this time you could have got that fixed."

"If you weren't lying awake worrying, you wouldn't hear it," Methos chided. "You can't save them all, Rich.."

"I know that," Richie ran a hand through his hair. "Its just, I hate feeling so helpless, you know?"

"You're not helpless. There are people here every day who survive because of you."

"A handful," Richie scoffed. "What good is that to the hundreds who die?"

"You've been spending too much time with Macleod again," Methos sighed. "I had hoped that by now some of my qualities would have rubbed off on you."

That got him the amused look he had been trying for.

"Yeah, well, for someone who prides himself on only looking after number one, you aren't doing too badly in the lifesaving department yourself, old timer."

"You never know when you might need a favour. Do you have any idea how many descendents a grateful patient can produce in 5000 years? Not to mention the occasional nubile daughter or the odd fatted calf. A good physician is never out of work."

"Unless, they decide to burn you at the stake for being league with the devil."

Methos looked askance at the bitter tone. "My, you are full of the joys of spring today, aren't you?"

"Sorry," Richie scrubbed at his face. "Just tired, I guess."

"Why don't you get some sleep? You are no good to anyone if you are dead on your feet."

Richie thought about protesting, but he really was tired and he was starting to get a headache. Must be the heat. Still, a couple of hours sleep and he would be as good as new. After all, he was Immortal, wasn't he?

"Are you sure you can manage by yourself?" he grinned cheekily at his former teacher.

"I don't know," Methos scowled at him. "But as you as so fond of saying, I reckon I can fake it."

!!!

That evening, Methos sat, stirring a small pot over the fire, when Richie emerged from their tent, blinking in the sunlight. Casting a practised eye at the sun as it made its way across the sky, the younger Immortal scowled.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because I thought you needed the rest," Methos countered. "Besides, this isn't quite ready yet."

Richie gave a quick glance into the pot.

"I'll pass thanks."

"You need to eat." Methos kept stirring..

"Yeah but, a guy can only take so much bean mush, before there are .. repercussions." Richie sank down onto the sand beside him.

"You think this is bad. When I was in Rome .." Methos began. Glancing over, he saw that Richie wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to his tale as he sat hunched up, rubbing his temples.

"You feeling alright?" Methos interrupted himself.

"Yeah, sorry," Richie made an effort to sit up a bit straighter. "I'm just a bit achy. Must have slept on a rock, or something. Good job Mac's not here, all these years of taking me camping and I'm still a city boy at heart."

Methos reached out and put a hand on Richie's forehead.

"Do you mind?," Richie swatted his hand away. "I'm not sick."

"You feel warm."

"Of course, I feel warm, its like 120 degrees in the shade." Richie exaggerated. Irritated, he reached for the canteen of water and took a long swallow, wincing as the cool liquid flowed over his parched throat.

"Does your throat hurt?"

"Yes, of course, my throat hurts. Its full of sand."

Surrendering his spoon, Methos gave the younger Immortal his full and undivided attention.

"Raise your arm."

"What is this? Elementary school? I don't need to go to the bathroom, thank you very much."

"Humour me."

Richie sighed. He knew his former teacher well enough to realise that_ that _particular request was anything but. Rolling his eyes he complied, if only to have the pleasure of saying I told you so, when Methos' poking and prodding failed to reveal anything amiss.

"Youch!" Reflexively, Richie pulled his arm back down and glared at the other Immortal. He expected to see his patented smirk at his discomfort. Instead, Methos was glaring at him. His eyes flinty.

"You know," Richie swallowed, wincing. Man, his throat really did hurt. "That is so, not a good look on you."

"You couldn't have mentioned that you were getting sick?"

"I'm not sick. I'm Immortal."

"Richie," Methos took a deep breath and tried to hold onto his patience. "You have a perfectly good medical degree. Now, your joints are aching, you have a fever, your throat is swollen, and you have tenderness under your arms, now unless you want me to check your groin, don't any of those symptoms, seem just the least bit familiar?"

Richie didn't need to answer him. Plague had spread like wildfire among the inhabitants of the camp. In these, hot, overcrowded, conditions, they were forever fighting a losing battle, at the end of one particularly wearing day Richie has asked Methos how it had been halted in the past.

_"It wasn't," Methos had shrugged. "That's why they called it the Black Death. People died."_

_"Yeah, but in the end?"___

_"In the end, enough people died. As the population fell people spread out. With less overcrowding there was less dirt and less risk of disease."_

_"That's your solution? We just wait for enough people to die?"_

_"That's the only solution. Except for a good hard winter. Kills off all the fleas."_

_"Winter?"__ Richie had looked around at the shimmering heat. "Out here?"_

"I can't be sick," Richie pulled away in denial. "I don't get sick any more. Its in the job description, right up there with being a sword carrying member and lopping people's heads off."

"You can get sick," Methos reminded him. "You just can't die from it. Not permanently, anyway."

"You're not sick.

"After time, you do build up some immunity. I've had the Plague before. Several versions, in fact."

"Oh great, just great. You couldn't have told me this was going to happen?"

"I thought you knew."

"So .." Richie swallowed. tried to sound nonchalant. "What happens now? I get a few boils, a bit of fever, some pus maybe, and then I die?"

"That's pretty much it," Methos nodded. "Eventually."

"Eventually? How, eventually?"

"Well, things may actually move slower because you are Immortal. Your body will be continuously trying to heal you. Only, over time, as you get weaker and weaker will it succeed in killing you. It might take a couple of weeks."

"A couple of weeks?" Richie almost choked on the words.

"Well, We could always try and speed things up a bit."

"How?"

"You don't get any food or water."

"Screw that," Richie shook his head and reached for his sword. "Here. Try not to get blood on my shoes, OK?"

"Richie, I can't just kill you."

"Sure, you can," Richie encouraged. "You've done it in practice, often enough. Just make it a nice clean thrust, OK? No waggling it around for the hell of it."

"I meant, if I kill you now, you'll never build up any immunity to this."

"I also don't die, writhing in agony. Not seeing a problem here."

"Alright, then," Methos agreed reaching for Richie's sword. "I suppose it was time we were leaving anyway. I have a library book I need to return."

He readied the blade

"Whoa, hey," Richie knocked the blade aside. "Who said anything about leaving? There are people here who need our help. I'm not leaving."

Methos simply waited.

Sure enough.

"Oh damn, damn, damn," Richie swore as realisation hit. If he stayed here he would simply fall ill again and again. And there was only so much doctoring you could do when you were dead. If he wanted to help these people he would have to see this thing through to the bitter end.

"I guess, I'm pretty sick, huh?" he apologised.

"You think you're in a bad way," Methos smiled at him. "Wait till Macleod hears I broke you. He'll kill me."

"Yeah, but look on the bright side," Richie croaked. "Not permanently. Least, I don't think so."


	2. Ch 2

AN – Thank you as ever for the reviews, just to make this clear. This is not technically the sequel to The Quickening – that is A Place Out of Time and will be the next story I post. However, I realised that certain events between those two stories needed to be addressed, so here we are. I guess you could call this the prequel to the sequel!

!!!

In five thousand years Methos liked to think he had learnt something about self preservation. He didn't call Macleod. He contacted Amanda. Although, he had to stalk twenty minutes out into the desert before he could get a clear signal on his phone from the com net.

"The Plague?" her eyes widened in concern. "Oh, poor Richard. Have you bathed his lumps in milk?"

"What do you think I need Macleod for?"

"Oh, but he's not here." Amanda shook her head. "He's  .."

The sound dipped and merged into static.

"He's where?" Methos found himself shouting at the phone, as if that could help.

 "I said .." .

The weak signal went fuzzy and then even Amanda's image zigzagged into static Methos swore at the phone and shook it hard to see if that made things better. "Doesn't anybody do repairs anymore?" he muttered.

A particularly hard thump and Amanda coalesced into something resembling herself.

"So, where is he?"

"He's gone to France."

"What's in France?"

"A book, I think," Amanda shrugged. "I wasn't really listening. I was too busy making sure he forgot to pack his credit card."

"Amanda, you do know those things use DNA scans now?"

"Oh, I have lots of ways of extracting what I need." Amanda purred.

"I'm sure you do. But you lack certain other vital equipment to pass as Macleod."

"Phooey," Amanda dismissed that. "All I need is a token male and I'm in business."

"When will Macleod be back?" Methos returned to the matter in hand.

"I'm not sure. Do you want me to come?" Amanda offered. She really was very fond of Richie. "Rebecca taught me some excellent plague remedies."

"Much as I'm sure Rich would love to see you in a nurses outfit, he's not exactly going to be looking his best," Methos shook his head. "He needs Macleod to mop his brow and read him bedtime stories."

"Well, you have his number." Amanda reached up to disconnect.

"No, wait," That was the last thing Methos wanted. "Look, the signal here keeps fritzing out. You couldn't give him a call for me?"

Amanda smirked.

"You don't want to tell Macleod, that you let him get sick do you?"

"I didn't let him do anything. He managed to get sick all by himself."

"Do you think Mac, will see it like that?"

"I don't know," Methos gave a thin smile. "But if I need a distraction, I can always tell him about your adventures with his credit card."

"Oh very well," Amanda huffed. "I'll call him. But I'm only doing this for poor sick Richard."

"Of course you are." Methos wasn't agreeing.

!!!

Another twenty minute walk back to the camp and Methos sought out the small tent he had been sharing with Richie. The younger man was sitting outside, squinting at him through the sun, Methos' stiletto dagger by his foot. Even in the short time he had been away the kid looked visibly more sick, with a thin sheen of sweat across his brow and soft tremors wracking his body as he struggled to force down a mouthful or two of bean mush as per Methos' orders.

"So?" Methos flopped down on the ground beside him and opted to ignore how dreadful the kid looked, in favour of a more casual approach. "Any visitors whilst I was out?"

"You mean, impaling anyone with this knitting needle of yours because I'm too weak to wield my sword?" Richie gave him a sour look. "I thought about it."

"I've told you. Killing yourself won't help."

"I meant you," Richie threw down his spoon and put the bowl of bean mush aside. "Connor's porridge is better than this and he puts salt in it."

"Well, when Macleod gets here he can take over the cooking."

"You didn't need to call him," Richie looked away. "I got myself sick. So I'm ill. Then I die. All he's gonna be able to do is watch."

"Yes I did. And not just because you need him. How many challenges did you have in your first ten years as an Immortal?"

"Twelve."

"And, how many have you faced in the last ten years?"

"Fifty five."

"And you don't think this is significant at all?"

"Alright, so maybe things have been hotting up a bit lately. But this is the desert. What are the chances of meeting anyone out here?"

"We're out here," Methos pointed out. "That means others might be. And I'd rather not take any chances. You can barely lift a sword, never mind wield it and I have to sleep sometime."

"You think this is really it then?" Richie said quietly. "The Gathering, I mean?"

"I think, its always been the Gathering. That is what all the loosing your head stuff has been about."

"Why?" Richie looked up. His eyes bright with fever and challenge. "C'mon. You're the one with all the answers. Why does it have to be like this?"

Methos sighed. Maybe it was time. Or at least, if not time, then very close to it. Give or take a few decades.

"I don't have all the answers." He pointed out.

"But you do have some?" Richie

"Someone has to win."

"That's your answer?"

"Its not my answer. It's the answer," Methos sighed. He supposed if all this turned out to be "a load of crock" as his former student might say, then he could always blame it on the kid's own feverish imaginings. "Haven't you ever wondered why so much is life is governed by duel principles?"

"You mean like Day and Night, Ying and Yang and all that?" Richie struggled to focus.

"Or good and evil." Methos added.

"So, what?" Richie wondered if this really wasn't making sense, or if he was sicker than he had thought. "All, of this," he made a swooshing motion with his hand to indicate swordplay, "Has been about whether you're one of the good guys or not?"

"At some point we all have to decide who we are."

"Yeah?" Richie closed his eyes. His head was throbbing. "So, what side are you on?" He opened his eyes just in time to see the look of raw pain his words put on the ancient Immortal's face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean .."

"Then you should," Methos ground out harshly. "None of us are innocent. Not me. Not you. Not even your precious Macleod. We've all killed. We've all tasted the dark side. Done things that we regret or are ashamed of. That's what makes it a choice. I know evil, but I chose good."

"Just like that?" Richie wondered. "Or did it take, like a millennium or two?"

"Mostly, just like that."

"What happened?"

"Darius happened. He was my student. Or rather the man who had led his armies to the gates of Paris was my student. A man of war, born to the sword and forged in blood and pain. This monk, this man of peace. He was nothing to me. His weakness disgusted me. I fully intended to take his head, on Holy Ground no less. He convinced me otherwise. I saw things .. somewhat differently after that."

"I can't imagine what I would have been like if I had had Kalas for a teacher." Richie said by way of apology.

"You would have been a monster," Methos vowed quietly. "There was no other way. Just as Macleod could not fail to nurture the good in you."

"Not just Mac." Richie said meaningfully.

"No," Methos agreed with a smile. "You are something of a group project. It takes a village after all .."

"Just so long as you're not thinking of calling Connor," Richie paused, as a wave of nausea washed through him. "He probably still thinks drinking a potion made from crushed insects is a pretty fine cure."

"Connor never really embraced the 20th Century," Methos agreed. "He's more of a warrior than a Wal Mart kind of guy."

"Whereas, our Amanda is a connoisseur of consumerism," Richie managed a smile. Though he really wasn't feeling so good.

"You should rest."

"I'm fine."

"Sure, you are," Methos rolled his eyes.

"I am," Richie swallowed. Man, he would kill for a Coke. Even the non sugar, non caffeine, pretty much useless version that masqueraded as a Coke these days. Hell, the whole point in drinking the stuff was the sugar and the caffeine. "Well, for a guy who has the Plague anyway." He shuddered as a spasm wracked his body.

"Will Mac be here soon?"

Methos responded to the unconscious note of need in the kid and picked up the soft cotton blanket and tucked it around his shoulders. "He's in France. But Amanda's going to call him. He'll be here as soon as he can. Now, go to sleep."

"Amanda's going to call him?" Amusement flickered in the tired eyes as Richie settled back in the sand. "How did you swing that?"

"I asked real nice." Methos smirked.

"You blackmailed her." Richie murmured.

"That too." He opened his mouth to tell the kid the whole story. When he noticed that he had fallen asleep. He scowled at the unconscious form. "You pick now to start following orders? Just who do you think is going to undress you and put you to bed?"

Richie made no response, unless snoring counted.

"Oh alright," Methos carefully picked him up. "But you owe me. Big time. The sooner Macleod gets here the better. I am not giving you a sponge bath."

!!!

They were a two hour ride from the nearest transit port. Which made it the middle of nowhere in modern parlance. Although, Methos could remember when a two hour ride was a short jaunt to the local shops. The time that Methos had estimated for his arrival came and went. As did the next hour. And the next.  All the time Richie tossed and turned in a fevered sleep that Methos was powerless to ease.

Dwas already breaking when a lone rider was spotted. The figure approaching on horseback was visible long before Methos felt the buzz. Even from this distance he could see that Macleod had travelled long and hard to get here. His horse was flecked with foam. His clothes were crumpled and stained with dust. As he came closer he could pick out the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of worry etched on his face as he threw himself out of the saddle and tossed his reins and a few coins to the small crowd of boys clamouring to tend to the animal.

"How is he?" Duncan demanded, by way of greeting.

"Where the hell have you been?" Methos retorted.

"I came as soon as I could." Duncan made to brush past him.

"Not good enough," Methos' sword barred his way. "What did you do, stop to have another couple of glasses of Merlot?"

Duncan froze.

"I wasn't in France. I had to go .." He trailed off. His eyes haunted. "Amanda said he was ill, she never said .. Its serious isn't it?"

Bloody Amanda, Methos fumed, trust her to pass the buck.

"Its not pretty."

"Tell me .." Duncan swallowed. "Tell me he still has his head."

"He still has it. He's a little out of it at the moment. But he still has it."

"Then what ..?"

"See for yourself."

Methos pulled back the tent flap, allowing the Scot to enter. Duncan blinked in the muted light, letting  his eyes adjust to the shadows, after the bright sunlight. On the pallet, Richie stirred, fitfully and opened his eyes.

_Mac_

In a single glance, Richie repaid all his efforts to get here. Without a word, Duncan dropped to his knees beside the makeshift bed, and wanting, needing, to make a physical connection, reached out and brushed the sweat soaked locks from his face.

"Hey." He spoke gently.

"Hey," Richie tried to speak. It came out as a weak croak. He coughed and tried again. "Hey yourself."

He looked up into the worried eyes of a man he knew better than anyone else on earth.

"Mac? What's wrong?"


	3. Ch 3

AN – Thanks for the reviews, to Yellowvalley, don't worry, this is not a death fic, to daughter1, a few people have commented that they thought the story was about something else when they read the title, as Neoinean has commented its not really a future fic either, hey, I just needed Richie to get sick and when you are Immortal a cold just won't do – so if anyone has any better ideas for a title I'm open to suggestions, please, to Supernatural Chick, glad you are enjoying, and to Ivy3, I aim to please, so this chapter is much longer.

!!!

Present Time.

When Macleod didn't reply Richie levered himself up onto his elbows, trying to ignore the twinges of pain and nausea that the action caused, as he focused on his friend and mentor.

"C'mon Mac, what gives?"

"Stop that," Duncan's large hand landed on his chest, gently settling him back down. "You need to save your strength."

Alright, so who was he kidding? Richie mused, letting himself be pushed back down, Mac was also his Dad and this was exactly the sort of thing guaranteed to snap him into parental mode. It probably didn't help, he realised, that he'd instinctively reverted to talking like a 20th century teenager. Still. He reached out of the blankets and seized the wrist that was tucking them in around him.

"I'll settle down when you tell me what's up, big guy."

It was almost nothing. That slight shadow in his eyes. Anyone could have missed it.

Richie wasn't anyone.

"You're sick," Duncan disengaged his wrist and went back to smoothing the blankets. "You don't think, that's going to worry me?"

That wasn't a lie. Richie knew that. But it also wasn't the whole truth. Mac had been hanging him around too long, he decided. "Yeah, I'm also Immortal. So we both know I'll get through this. So, give."

"Rich," Duncan ran a hand through his matted hair. "Look, the Plague isn't like chicken pox. This is going to be pretty rough, Tough Guy."

Richie paused. There was no doubting the sincerity of that statement. Methos had told him this would be no picnic, but he'd hoped he had been exaggerating. At least a bit. Methos was not known for his optimistic streak. Something of his fear must have shown in his eyes, because Mac reached up and gently ruffled his hair.

"Look Rich, I'm not trying to shut you out here. But let's get you well first. Then we'll talk."

"Did someone die?" He had to know that at least.

"What?" Duncan looked shocked. "No, lad. No one died. I wouldna keep that from you. Its .. look it doesn't change anything. Not really. But its .. complicated. I need to be sure you are well enough to understand .."

Richie felt a long forgotten dull, heavy, ache in his chest. Similar to when his foster parents would tell him, we're sorry but .. and the next thing he knew, his home, family and his happiness had been pulled out from under him.

"Did you and Amanda break up?"

"No," Duncan countered quickly. His eyes softened in understanding, as he recalled how hard Richie had worked as matchmaker to get them both to admit their true feelings to each other. He had even enlisted Connor's help to provide Duncan with some straight talking tough love and Methos' skills to manipulate Amanda into being open and honest for once. "We're doing great. More than great, actually .."

Richie's eyes widened.

"So, are you getting married? Mac, that's fabulous. Look, you don't gotta worry about me. Its not like I'm that needy kid anymore. I know how you feel about me. And Amanda's great. Maybe not your typical step-mom material, but I love having her around. It makes me feel like we are a real family. You know, like when .." he stopped. Now, probably wasn't the most tactful time to remind Duncan of his time at the Seacouver Antique Store.

"Richie, we're not getting married," Seeing the disappointment in his lad's eyes Duncan sought to soften the blow. "But I know what you mean. I loved Tessa so much .. I didn't think I could ever be this happy again. And its mostly thanks to you. I can't ever thank you enough for that."

"Yeah, well," Richie shrugged, as well as a person could lying down. "I figured I owed you."

A pause. Then Duncan's tone, more icy than Richie had heard it in a long time. At least, when directed at him.

"_What_ did you say?"

Richie suddenly realised what he had done. Oh shit. Maybe he could blame it on the heat, or the fever. Perhaps he could even convince the exhausted Immortal that he'd just hallucinated the comment. Trouble was, Mac knew him far too well.

"Rich," Duncan sighed. "I thought we settled this a long time ago."

!!!

The past – Paris, November 1993.

It had been almost two weeks since Tessa had been killed. Gunned down in the street. Her life taken in split second. And, Richie beside her. Across the dinner table in the Noel family town house in one of the most fashionable districts of Paris, Duncan cast a worried look at his protégé. To all outward appearances, the lad was doing fine. He had spoken respectfully to Tessa's father, been considerate towards her Mother, and earnt everyone's enduring gratitude by taking charge of Tessa's distraught six year old niece. The sound of her peals of laughter as he played with her helping to sustain the adults.

"Richie," Mme Noel spoke up, the pleasant smile on her lips belying the concern in her eyes. "Would you like a little more of the casserole?"

The lad looked down at his plate. He had cut his food into small pieces and moved it around. But, as far as Duncan could tell, he hadn't eaten more than a few mouthfuls. Not enough to keep a mouse alive. Never mind an active teenager. Even less an Immortal. As he looked up, Duncan could see that he was preparing a polite refusal. Clearly, so could Beatrice Noel, because she spoke up quickly. "I made it specially, Tessa said it was one of your favourities, non?" She smiled.

Duncan discreetly met Henri Noel's eyes in silent admiration as Richie caved and helped himself to another spoonful. This time making a genuine effort to clear some space on his plate, before seeking out Duncan's eyes in a mute appeal. Inwardly, Duncan sighed. It was a fraction of what he would normally have put away and then asked for seconds. But it was an improvement, over what he ha eaten these last few days, so he smiled and gave a quick nod of permission. Gratefully, Richie laid down his fork.

"Please may I be excused?"

"You would not like some dessert?" Tessa's sister Eloise tried to coax. "Its crème brulee. I remember how you like that."

Duncan swallowed hard, caught up in his own memories. What Richie had really liked was making the crème brulee, wielding the miniature blow torch like the evil villain from some comic book or other. He could still hear Tessa's laughter at his antics as the teen kept up a running patter, interrogating each hapless ramekin dish, before toasting the brown sugar topping to a crisp.

"No, thank you. Um. I'm pretty tired. I'd think I'll turn in if that's OK?"

Duncan looked up sharply at the dejected tone in Richie's voice. Only to see the teen staring at him, his face a mask of sorrow and guilt. Inwardly, Duncan swore fervently, knowing that his moment of introspection had been written across his face.

"Of course," Henri put in kindly, flicking Beatrice a quick glance when she opened her mouth to protest. Henri could see that the day had taken its toll on the boy. And the funeral tomorrow would be hard on them all. Not quite able to disguise his relief, Richie stood up and began to say his goodnights, briefly kissing Tessa's mother and sister, shaking hands with her brother in law and, to his evident surprise, receiving a hearty hug, from her father, before turning to look awkwardly at Duncan.

The night Tessa had been killed, Duncan had sat up with Richie, murmuring comfort as the teenager had sobbed in his arms, describing in great choking breaths, how the drug crazed kid had come out of nowhere and gunned them down without any warning. But the following morning Richie had been quiet, reserved, flinching at any simple touch of affection as if burnt, and shying away from any discussion remotely related to emotions. And, so he had remained. Duncan felt like they had lost all the ground gained in the last two years. His heart ached to kiss and cosset the lad, to protect him from all that was to come. But, right now, he feared the lad would deck him, if he tried.

"I'll be up in a minute." Duncan spared him.

"He's taken it hard." Henri Noel murmured, when Richie was out of earshot.

"Yes." Duncan agreed shortly.

"Tessa loved him very much," Mme Noel put in. "She would not wish to see him like this. It is too sad."

"Perhaps, he should not come tomorrow?" Eloise suggested. "If I asked him to stay at home and watch Minette, I am sure he would agree, and it would not seem as if we were trying to protect him?"

"It's an idea," Duncan's face twisted. He wondered if he was being selfish. Did Richie need to be there? Lord knows, he knew he needed him there. But that was hardly the same thing.

"It is a bad idea," Beatrice vetoed it sternly. "What that boy needs is his family around him."

"What he needs," Henri met Duncan's eyes meaningfully. "Is his father."

---

Even though he knew Richie would already have sensed him, Duncan took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the bedroom door, before he entered. Truth be told, he felt a little unsure of his welcome, after the scene downstairs. He should just have hugged the lad hard and hang the consequences. As he stepped into the room he realised, with surprise, that Richie was nowhere to be seen. Just as he turned his head to look towards the bathroom, something flashed in the corner of his vision and, with lightening reflexes, he stayed Richie's hand, just before the teen smashed the poker into his skull.

"Mac!" Richie stepped back in surprise.

"Expecting someone else?" Duncan growled, plucking the poker from the teen's hand. "Give me that."

"I'm sorry, I was just sitting here and then I felt the buzz and I didn't know what to think and then someone knocked and you don't usually knock and besides I didn't figure you were coming, so when I felt the buzz .." Richie's voice echoed with rising panic. He looked very pale. And scared out of his wits.

_I didn't figure you were coming._

"Its alright, lad," Duncan reassured. "Frankly, I'm glad to see you still have some sense of self preservation."

"What?" Richie looked up at him, in shock and confusion, as Duncan led him back to bed.

"Well," Duncan decided to take advantage of his disorientation as he sat him on the bed and swung his feet around, tucking the blankets back over him as he spoke. "You've lost weight, you've got bags under your eyes, you're as pale as a ghost. Lord knows, a stiff breeze would be enough to do for you, right now. Never mind another Immortal"

Richie tensed, but did not speak. Duncan decided to try a different approach.

"At least, you had the sense not to use anything breakable," he smiled, looking around at the many, priceless, Antiques in the room. "I'm not sure how we could have explained to the Noels that you were playing Tic Tac Toe on my head. Or the blood stains on the carpet for that matter."

"Mac, how can you joke about this?" Richie sounded close to tears.

"Because, I'm fine and you're fine," Duncan reached out and stroked his face. "And that's all that matters."

Richie flinched away.

"Will you stop that?" Duncan snapped. "Richie, I'm trying to understand here, but it doesna help when the lad I love most in all the world insists on treating me like some kind of leper."

"But you don't, .. You c .. can't .." Richie stuttered, as his eyes went wide.. "I mean, you .. you gotta keep me around cos you're all about honour and chivalry and all that stuff and you gotta find me a teacher. But you don't love me anymore. You can't .."

"Why not?" Duncan, felt a dreadful tightness in his chest.

"Because, she died and I just stood there." Richie's tone was tight with anguish.

Duncan close his eyes briefly. He had never, even for a moment, blamed Richie for Tessa's death. He knew that the lad would have saved her if he could. And, he had hardly escaped from the encounter unscathed. Now, if only he could convince Richie of that.

"Hey," Duncan reached out and turned Richie's hand over, the teen looked down at the point where the Immortal's thumb carrassed his palm with bemusement. "You didn't do 'nothing'. You died too, remember?"

"The hell I did," Richie managed, his voice ragged with emotion. "I can still take a walk in a park, eat a chilli dog, hang out with my friends. Tessa can't do any of that stuff."

Duncan sighed, he had foolishly assumed that Richie's prior expose to Immortal's would make the whole process of dying and re-awakening to Immortal life easier for the lad to swallow. Clearly, having a knowledge of Immortals wasn't making the fact of his own demise and resurrection any easier to accept. Hating himself for needing to be so brutal, he slipped his other hand into his jacket pocket, feeling for the smooth, cool, shape of his penknife.

"You _died_, Richie," he repeated. "As sure as if you were in your grave. Your old life is gone. You're one of us now."

With that, he flashed the penknife down and across Richie's palm. The sharp intake of breath from beside him was testament to his effectiveness and as they watched, the thin white line shone brightly, before the first few droplets of crimson blood bubbled their way to the surface. Even as one droplet trickled towards his fingers, others blossomed, until the thin cut, swam with blood.

Then it began, the little blue light, arched and spat its way across the open wound. Richie watched, mesmerised, as the Quickening's healing erased all trace, until there was nothing but dried blood to show it had not all been a dream.

"Lesson one," Duncan spoke gently. "The dried blood is a bit of a giveaway. Always best to wash that off as soon as you can."

"Why me, Mac?" Richie looked up at him, his eyes wide. "It should have been Tessa."

"Richie, I loved Tessa," Duncan shrugged. "I always will. But she would not have wanted this life and I cannot tell you how grateful I am to have you here and alive. _I _need you, Rich. I need your spirit and your humour to remind me what there is to love in life. And, Tessa always wanted you to be the very best you could, she won't begrudge you that chance."

!!!

Present Time.

"We did settle it," Richie looked up at Duncan. "I know you've never blamed me. And I'm damn sure that Tessa would have torn me off a strip if she'd been around to see me doing that to myself. But that doesn't change what I feel, you know. If I could go back and change it …"

"Rich, some things can't be changed." Duncan shook his head sadly.

"Hey," Richie countered. "A century ago people thought the post it note was a pretty nifty invention, who knows what might happen in the future?"


	4. Ch 4

Richie knew he was getting worse. It was more difficult to swallow, as his throat swelled up, or to move, as his joints protested every little shift in position. Even, just lying there was far from comfortable as tender blisters appeared in places he didn't even know he had. And then there was the nausea ..

Oh hell, why did he even have to think about that?

He tensed slightly as he felt a twinge in his gut.

"Try to relax."

Methos's voice came out of the shadows beside him, even as the Immortal's cool hand rubbed gently on his abdomen. Richie closed his eyes, trying to keep his breathing slow and easy, seeking that place of inner calm that came with meditation. Except, his body had other ideas and suddenly he was heaving, his stomach contracting in painful spasms as he gave gasping breaths as the ancient Immortal patiently braced his pain wracked body.

"Oh man." Richie sank back down onto the pallet.

"Here," Methos slipped his hand behind Richie's head, elevating it slightly, as he brought a flask of water to the kid's dry lips. "Take small sips."

"Easy for you to say." Richie croaked out over his swollen throat.

"Just try."

Richie took a couple of large swallows, wincing painfully as his throat protested. "You know, you'd look great in a nurses outfit."

"I do have the legs for it." Methos agreed.

"Where's Mac?"

"Fussing over some concoction or other he thinks is going to make you feel better."

"Chicken soup? He always used to make me Chicken soup when I was sick. And not that canned stuff. With actual chicken."

"Now I know you're delirious," Methos mocked. "Where is he going to find a chicken out here?"

Richie sighed. "You might as well say it. You know you want to."

"Say what?" Methos looked innocent.

"What an idiot I was .. coming out here and expecting a few colds and the odd bout of chicken pox and measles and stuff to give me an immunity against the plague."

"If you already know it, I don't need to say it, then do I?" Methos argued.

"Doesn't usually stop you." Richie muttered, hunkering down in the blankets and feeling somehow unreasonably cheated.

"I'm trying to be caring," Methos huffed. "You are sick, after all."

Richie scowled at the Ancient Immortal, sitting on his heels in the dust. "Rub it in, why don't you?"

"Richie you are quite old enough to make your own decisions," Methos shrugged. "If you want to come out here away from all reasonable comforts to play at being sick and dying, then who am I to stop you?"

"Hey, no one chooses to get sick!" Richie protested.

"Didn't you?" Duncan's voice cut in softly from the doorway.

Richie turned his head away. He knew his friends had been worrying about him recently. Hell, he was worried about him too. He was tired of fighting, the constant struggle to stay alive and for what? To see your mortal friends wither and die? To watch your Immortal friends as they were picked off one by one? All the while, knowing that all you are doing is postponing the inevitable?

"Richie, most of us had a chance to adjust to being Immortal," Duncan continued. "Centuries to taste its pleasures, as well as its pains. Spend a few lifetimes on Holy Ground. You were born into the height of the Gathering. Do you remember how many I killed in my first century as an Immortal?"

Richie did, Mac had told him once. His fever fogged brain couldn't remember what the figure was, but he knew his clear bark of laughter had echoed off the walls. He had killed more Immortals than that in his first decade. It seemed like no matter how many challenges he faced, they just kept coming.

"I still have my head."

"For as long as you choose to keep it." Methos spoke up.

Richie flushed with guilt, which was rapidly chased away by resentment. "The Watchers should mind their own business."

"You are their business. Just like you are ours. Garrett almost took you. You had him there at the point of your blade and you hesitated. You gave an ancient Immortal, with centuries more experience than you, a bloody great window of opportunity. You need to live, Richie and to live you need to damn well fight."

"They all have centuries more experience than me, remember?" He pointed out sourly. "I'm the new kid on the block."

Not for the first time, Methos wished that Richie had never found out that particular piece of information. Knowing you were the youngest surviving Immortal. That kind of thing was likely to give even the most robust of students something of a complex.

"Rich, you're missing the point," Duncan reached out and gave his hand a gentle, comforting, squeeze. "The Game isn't supposed to be about the killing, iti s about the living and what you do with that life. Do you even remember why you wanted to become a Doctor?"

!!!

The Past 1999.

As soon as Duncan entered Joe's Bar he felt the wash of an Immortal. However, he had seen Richie's bike outside and knew he sword would not be needed. He noted approvingly as the lad glanced up, from underneath the bar, wary and ready. He sent him the flash of a grin in return. The lad, gave a nod and a smile before turning his attention back to the blocked pump that he was apparently trying to fix for Joe. He was just about to head over and see if he could offer help, when Joe bustled out of his office.

"Mac," His face fell. "Um, the usual?"

"You look disappointed," Duncan observed, as the barkeep hurried to serve him. "Expecting someone else?"

"Actually, yeah," Joe positively beamed. "I only got the phone call a few minutes ago, but you'll never guess who is back in town."

Just then door opened and a man in a dark, well cut suit, stepped forward to allow a small women with red hair and green eyes, to enter the bar. Duncan straightened slightly. Even with his limited knowledge of popular music he knew who this was. Her emerald eyes and impish grin had stared out from any number of tapes and then CD's that Richie had left littered around his home, his car, his life.

"Derrick," Joe came forward to greet the suit with a hearty smile and a warm handshake. "Its good to see you again. My, last time I saw you with your Dad, you must have been what .. eight .. nine?."

"About that," Derrick smiled warmly. "You look well, Mr Dawson."

"Hey, you'll make me feel like an old man. Call me Joe."

"Joe," Derrick nodded as he made the introductions. "This is Cassidy Graham, Cassie this is one of the best blues players you'll ever meet, Joe Dawson."

"Pleased to meet you." Cassie smiled warmly.

The bartender laughed. "I can't believe you're here in my bar. Has anyone welcomed you home to Seacouver yet? Talk about local girl makes good. Well, let me be the first." He beamed. Then suddenly remembering the Immortal, he turned to Macleod, "Hey Mac, you know who this is? This is Cassie Graham. Grammy award winning Cassie Graham."

"Congratulations." Duncan offered his hand, which engulfed her small, pale one, easily.

"It was just the once." Cassie blushed awkwardly.

"Richie .." Joe beckoned the kid over. Richie wiped his hands on a rag and came over, looking straight at the barkeep without as much as glancing at his guests. "You want the good news or the bad news? The bad news is the pump is toast. The good news is I know a man who can get you a new part at cost."

"This is legit, right?" Joe frowned.

"Joe," Richie spread his hands, looking wounded. "Would I ever steer you wrong?"

"Richie?" Cassie had gone quite pale.

"Hey, Cass," Richie flashed her a quick, insincere grin, that had every parental instinct that Duncan had sitting up and taking notice. "So, Joe, the pump?"

"You two know each other?" Joe asked.

"Yes," Cassie spoke up. "Richie, is .."

"A friend from the old neighbourhood," Richie cut in. Duncan frowned, whatever Richie was, it wasn't that. Even as he watched the lad was offering his hand to the promoter. "Nice to meet you."

"Well then," Derrick smiled warmly. "We'll have to find you some tickets to the show tomorrow night, best in the house ..."

"Sorry, no can do," Richie cut him off. "I have to work, .. right Mac?"

Duncan paused. Anyone else might have missed the subtle tension in his protég's shoulders. Judging from the glare he sent him Joe certainly had. But he wasn't about to let the lad down.

"Fraid so." He agreed.

"C'mon Mac, the kid works hard, you can give him some time off." Joe argued.

"Sorry, we're short handed as it is," Duncan shrugged, weathering Joe's scathing look for Richie's sake. The lad gave him a quick, grateful glance.

"Well then," Joe patted Richie's shoulder like a consoling Uncle, still frowning at Duncan. "Look, why don't we all sit down, you'll have a beer, right, Rich?"

"Thanks but no thanks, Joe," Richie shook his head. "I .. um .. have a date. Look, I'll tie that pump off for now and you can let me know what you want, OK?"

As the rest of them settled at one of the small tables, Derrick and Joe fell into conversation about past promotions and venues. Duncan wondered if Cassie realised that she was watching every ripple of Richie's chest as he tied off the pump. Every tilt of his hips as he made his way over, his helmet hanging from one hand..

"OK, I'm done," Richie announced, looking steadfastly anywhere but at the singer. "I'll let you know what I get that part, Joe."

"Thanks, Rich." Joe said, with a scowl at Macleod, clearly hinting he should reconsider his draconian employment regime.

"Is that your bike outside?" Cassie asked suddenly. "The Harley?"

"Yeah," Richie switched his gaze to the floor. "It was a present from .. a friend."

Connor actually, as Duncan remembered. A year or so back when Richie had been feeling low, worn down by the necessity of the killing, of the Game, he had taken a road trip. Connor had stumbled across him in an Art Gallery in New York, in front of one of Tessa's best works, looking in need of a friend, and taken him home like a lost puppy for a month or six and taught him a few things Duncan hadn't got around to yet. In gratitude, Richie had restored the vintage Harley he had found in the basement. On Richie's next birthday, a large crate had appeared in the Dojo. A token of Connor's respect for his student's dedication. Richie had initially wanted to return it, but Duncan hadn't had to do much fast talking to convince the lad, his mentor was sincere.

"Moze wize to?" Cassie asked softly. _Can I see it?_

Duncan blinked. Polish? Where had that come from?

"Sorry," Richie shook his head, looking sharply at the floor. "I gotta go."

Cassidy sucked in her cheeks and bit her lip hard, as she watched Richie walk out into the sunshine.

"Go after him," Duncan said softly. Cassie shot him a quick, surprised, glance. But rose up and followed the young man out the door. She was only gone for a few minutes before she burst back through the door muttering and swearing .. "Not a good idea, for who, I'd like to know .. of all the arrogant, selfish inconsiderate, ."

Duncan wondered how she would feel if she knew he spoke Polish.

"Cassie?" Derrick looked up with a frown, attracted by her tone of voice. "Is something wrong?"

"What?" Cassie switched to English, as she spun round to look at him, flustered, as if she had forgotten he was there. "No, not at all. I just .. " Her eyes fell on the sweater she had left on her seat and she rushed on in a burst of inspiration. "I just couldn't find my sweater."

Arriving back at the Dojo, Duncan stood in the doorway and watched, not without a certain amount of pride, as Richie executed a flawless Kata. It contained some difficult moves, that only a few short months ago the lad would have been unable to master. He was working hard. Doing well.

"Before you say anything, I know its you." Richie spoke without breaking his flow.

"I obviously need to change my Cologne."

That got him a response. Richie turned his head and looked at him over his shoulder. Really looked, and Duncan saw the raw pain in his eyes. He picked a towel off the weight bench and threw it at his student, Richie caught it easily in his free hand.

"Take a shower, I'll make lunch."

"I need to finish this," Richie stalled. "Aren't you always saying I need to finish stuff I started?"

"How old were you?"

Richie shrugged. There was no point in lying. And he didn't really want to. "Fourteen."

"Oh," Duncan pushed himself off the door jamb as his eyes softened with new understanding. Many years ago Richie had confided that he was only fourteen the first time he had slept with a girl. He saw the lad blush, as if he had forgotten that the Immortal knew that particular bit of his history.

"Look, Mac, its no big deal." He half turned away. "Forget it."

Duncan was there in two long strides, gripping his forearm hard, so that Richie turned to look at him, his eyes bright. Duncan reached out and put one finger under his chin. "Richie she was your first .. of course it was a big deal."

"The hell it was," Richie protested. "This wasn't dinner at Franco's and back to a four poster strewn with rose petals. It was up on the roof of the apartment block, cold and hungry, but too damn scared to go back inside until he had passed out."

"She was your foster sister?"

Duncan sucked in his breath. The whole world knew that Cassidy Graham had been taken into care at the age of thirteen. Ripped away from a Grandmother who adored her by Child Services who thought the woman too old to care for a teenager, only to be placed in an abusive foster home, where her drunken foster father had tried to rape her. She now used her celebrity to campaign on every talk show across America for children's rights.

"Not her," Richie shook his head slightly bitterly. "Just a girl who looked like her."

"Just because she's famous now, that doesn't make her a different person, Rich."

"She was the one who walked away, Mac. She made her choice. Long time ago."

!!!

Present

"I never expected her to see her again," Richie said quietly. "Not after, I already blew her off like that."

"She still loved you," Duncan confirmed. "She always loved you."

"Yeah," Richie exhaled. "I never knew. That night at the Hospital after he .. well, you know all about that .. was the last time I saw her. She got adopted by the nice couple who saw all the fuss on the news and I got sent back to the Orphanage, again."

"She wrote to you," Duncan reminded him quietly.

"And my Social Worker decided it was in my best interests to make a new start and she never passed 'em along." Richie picked at his blanket. "All those years, I thought she'd moved on ..."

"It didn't take you long to make up for lost time." Methos observed.

"Are you ever gonna let me forget that?" Richie blushed.

"Not any time this millennium. You felt the buzz, you should have been paying more attention … and you got chocolate chip ice-cream on my white rug."

"Hey, I was paying plenty of attention," Richie coughed slightly. "And white is not a practical colour."

"You need to rest." Duncan put in.

"In a minute," Richie shook his head. "Man, do you remember Joe's face when we told him she was gonna fake her own death and go out at the height of her fame so we could stay together? I thought he was gonna have a heart attack."

"It was a great marketing strategy," Methos shrugged. "All the best artists are dead."

Too late, he realised the tactlessness of that observation as Duncan gave him a sharp, angry glare and Richie's face twisted, at the painful reminder of Tessa.

"Rich?" Duncan looked down in concern. This illness was breaking through all Richie's defences. He seemed less like the capable warrior and trusted second he had become and more like the frightened, isolated teenager, he had been at first. Reaching over he brushed a single tear from the fevered cheek with his thumb.

"I tried, Mac. I really really tried, to be a normal guy, have a normal life with the girl I loved. But it was all a load of croak. Man, I thought telling her I was Immortal would be the worse thing we had to get over, who knew she had a secret of her own?"

"Everybody dies Richie. No matter how much you love them, no matter how much you need them, they still die." Methos tone was unusually gentle and Richie remembered what a support he had been in those dark days when Cassidy had quickly got sicker and sicker before his very eyes and he had been powerless to stop it.

It had taken him over fifty years, but at least no-one else would have to go through what he had. Not that young. Not that suddenly. Not from that illness.

"The thing is, I never thought .." Richie's eyes widened and he bit his lip hard.

"You never thought what ..?" Methos frowned at him, a horrible suspicion dawning in his mind.

"Nothing," Richie turned his head away. "I really am tired, now."

"Richie," Duncan sat back on his heels and stared down at him. "Is this about Sforza? Is that what this is?"

"He was going to kill you, Mac," Richie's tone was ragged. "I mean, no matter who else died .. I never thought anyone could take you .. if that bridge hadn't collapsed .. and he's still out there .. he's not gonna give up .. he's gonna come and find you .. and I can't .. _I can't_ do this without you."


	5. Ch 5

AN – I'm sorry that this has taken so long but I've recently moved house, started a new job, lost my internet connection, got a new computer, and my puppy had to have an operation. My other excuse is that this is longer than my usual chapters. I hope it was worth waiting for. I would never abandon a story, but it may be that I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

"Richie, you know I can't promise .." The words died on Duncan's lips as he took in the small dark blisters rising on the lad's chalk white features, which ghosted over with pain as he shifted his swollen joints on the straw pallet. The bright blue eyes now red and bloodshot were blinking painfully as Richie grimaced, desperately trying to swallow over his parched throat.

Lord, he looked dreadful.

"Please, Mac .." he rasped. "I can't do this without you. I need you."

Duncan looked up and met Methos' eyes with pained self-recrimination. In the normal way of things, children out grew their dependence on their parents, became parents themselves. Richie would never have that luxury, and part of him would always be nineteen. And for all his protestations of independent, over time, they had both come to realise that, that part of him needed Duncan as much now as when they first met. If he had lived long enough to move out of the turbulence of adolescence to full adulthood, things might have been different. But he, the sainted Macleod, had failed to give him that chance.

"It happened, Macloed," Methos shrugged. "Deal with it"

Duncan glared at him, preparing to make a sharp retort when Richie gave a hoarse cry of pain. Duncan looked down. The lad's hands were pressed against his eyes as dark blood run down between his splayed fingers.

"Let me see," Methos commanded, gently prising the fingers away. Duncan knew it was bad when Methos swore.

"It feels like my eyeballs exploded."

"That's probably because they did," Methos commented, as he washed out the eyes with cool water. "Try not to blink."

"You're snowing me, right?"

"Well, the capillaries in your eyeballs, rather than the eyeballs themselves," Methos amended "But close enough. There, that's the best I can do for now."

"But I can't see," Richie's voice rose in panic. "Mac? I can't see anything."

"Easy Tough Guy," Duncan moved so he could settle the younger Immortal's head into his lap and gently brushed his hair back. "This is all just temporary, remember?"

Richie blinked sightlessly up at him, his features smoothing out slightly as he relaxed under Duncan's ministrations. "So, all I have to do is die and that will make it all better?" he tried to joke.

"Pretty much." Duncan acknowledged wryly as he ran his thumb across one cheek, noting with a pang how thin and sunken it was, with skin stretched like parchment across increasingly protruding bones. Richie, opened his mouth to speak, only to be wracked by a violent shudder as his body succumbed yet further to the virus. "Hush," Duncan chided. "Just rest. I'll be here. I'm not leaving you. My word on it."

Richie nodded fractionally, his mouth shaping a weak ''Kay' before his head lolled gently to one side and he fell into an exhausted sleep.

"You shouldn't make him promises you can't keep." Methos disapproved.

Duncan met his eyes.

"I never have."

Past 2005

"For Lord's sake, Risteard," Connor put down his coffee cup, as he continued the argument they had been having on and off for the past two weeks. "You live on a ranch now. You need to learn to ride."

Duncan met Methos eyes across the breakfast table. The Ancient Immortal shrugged slightly and returned to reading his newspaper. Duncan carefully cut his French toast into four pieces and waited to see how Richie would worm his way out of it this time.

Sure, enough.

"You want me to," Richie corrected, around a mouthful of sugary cereal. "I don't need to. I can get by just fine without it. Thanks all the same."

"What about that filly of yours? Don't you want to be able to ride her?" Connor played his trump card.

Duncan paused, his teeth locked into a square of toast. He wouldn't have used that argument himself. He waited to see how Richie would react.

"That's not why I bought her," Richie shook his head. "Anyway, maybe she doesn't want to be ridden. How would you like it if someone stuck some bit of metal in your mouth and started kicking your sides?"

Behind his newspaper, Methos laughed out loud. Connor scowled.

"A spirited one like that won't take kindly to cooling her heels in her stall all day or stuffing herself in the pasture."

"Well, I already have all the horsepower I need, its called a Harley." Richie stood up, scooping up the last mouthful of cereal as he did so, turning away to put his dish in the sink, signalling the end of the discussion.

Duncan carefully chewed and swallowed his mouthful of toast, schooling his expression so Connor would not se the glint of pride in his eyes. His teacher was accustomed to getting his own way. It took steel to stand up to him. It gave Duncan no small amount of satisfaction to see Richie hold fast – like a true Macleod.

"Then maybe I should reconsider my gift. If it will force you to abandon this foolishness."

Duncan looked up sharply. Connor looked absolutely serious.

"What? You can't do that," Richie froze, his bowl in one hand and a spoon trailing an arc of milk onto the floor in the other. "Its mine now. You gave it to me."

"It's the way of the Clan," Connor gave him a thin smile that held very little warmth. "That which is in the gift of the Clan Chief can be revoked by the Clan Chief if it is for the betterment of the Clan."

"Just like that?" Richie asked hollowly.

"Rich?" Duncan asked in concern. The lad had gone quite pale.

"He can't do that, can he Mac? Tell me he can't do that." Richie begged.

Duncan hesitated, torn between his loyalty to his teacher and oath to his kinsman and his rising concern at Richie's evident distress. The right of the Clan Chief to revoke any honour was absolute. But Richie looked as if he was about to be physically sick.

In response, Connor walked over to the small wooden rack where the numerous keys needed to run such a large property hung in neat, labelled rows. Deftly he plucked the keys to the Harley and put them in his pocket.

"You can have them back when you can sit a horse to my satisfaction."

Richie's lips thinned into a hard line and his eyes glinted with an angry, light that Duncan hadn't seen in decades, not since a frightened and defensive teenager, determined to trust no-one, had first moved in to live with him and Tessa at the Store.

"You bastard."

Richie spoke the words quietly, but with a vehemence that made all the hairs on Duncan's neck stand on end. In the next instance, he had sent the cereal bowl crashing against the wall, the sound of it shattering into several pieces echoing around the large kitchen, as a thin trail of milk trickled down the wall. The spoon followed, hard and fast enough to take a sizeable chunk out of the plaster.

"Pick it up," Connor's voice, low and deadly, crackled with the authority that had commanded armies under fire.

The stream of expletives indicated that Richie had no intention of obeying. Duncan tensed, ready to intervene if necessary. Across the table, Duncan noticed that Methos had abandoned any pretence at reading the paper and was watching the exchange intently.

"Risteard .." Disturbed by the strength of Richie's reaction, Connor softened his tone. He met Duncan's eyes in a quick, apologetic, glance, acknowledging that perhaps he had gone too far. "Look, just sit down .."

"Like hell," Richie snapped. "I shoulda known better. You're just like all the rest of them .." and with that he turned on his heel and fled.

Knowing from bitter experience, that it was no good to go after him, when he was like this, better to give him some time to cool off first, Duncan fixed his glare on a more convenient target.

"I didn't think he'd take it that hard." Connor looked at his kinsman with genuine bewilderment. Duncan's own anger cooled somewhat when he saw the look of hurt in his teacher's eyes. Connor could be a hard taskmaster, but he was not a cruel man and he cared deeply about the welfare of his 'favourite' nephew.

"He loves that bike," Duncan softened his criticism with a tired smile. "I think he'd sleep with it if he could."

"Oh for God's sake," Methos tossed his paper aside and fixed the two clansmen with an irate look. "How either of you ever lived this long, I have no idea. This isn't about the bloody bike."

Duncan found him, exactly where he knew he would be. Sitting in the loose box with the filly, as she munched contentedly on a net of hay, occasionally snuffling at her master as he sat, white faced and dry eyed, amid the straw, staring blankly at the wall. Duncan's gut twisted. If Richie felt safe enough to cry, things were never so bad. It was this, pale, pinched, look that bitter experience had taught him to dread.

"She's putting on weight." He offered.

Only the slight hitch of his left shoulder indicated that Richie had even heard him. Still, Duncan decided to take that as a good sign and settled himself down in the straw, making sure their knees and shoulders touched. They sat in silence for a while. Then a thin shudder ran through the lad.

"Thanks." He all but whispered.

"For what?" Duncan returned easily.

"For not letting Connor kill me, for a start," Richie laughed hollowly. "For not reaming me out for acting like that. For bothering to come looking. Just for being here, you know?"

Duncan ran a hand through his hair. The insecurity in his tone resonated. This was going to need careful handling. Very careful handling. "Want to tell me what you're really afraid of?"

"Do you even remember a time when you didn't know how to ride?"

Duncan almost smiled at the familiar tactic. Richie was a past master at answering a question with a question. But Duncan had quickly realised that his questions were often more enlightening than his answers. He thought he could see where Richie was going with this. "No, I don't think so. The bairns of the Clan would be set on a pony as soon as they could sit upright. It was just the way it was back then."

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I figured." Richie's tone was flat.

"Richie, we've been through this before," Duncan patted his leg. "I'm over four hundred years old. Almost, anything you do, chances are I've already got there first."

"You ever tried cocaine?" Richie challenged.

"In the seventeenth century it used to be a cure for toothache." Duncan shrugged, ignoring for the moment the implications of Richie's challenge.

"Immortals don't get toothaches."

"They can get curious though."

"You're seriously telling me you went out and scored?" Richie turned his head, scanning Duncan's face for the truth.

"Its not something I'm proud of," Duncan admitted. "I mean, I knew it couldn't kill me and I could well afford it. I didn't have to do anything criminal or illegal to obtain it. But I've since seen the damage that drugs can do and it sickens me that I was ever a part of that, even a small part. If my father was still alive .."

"He'd probably disown you all over again, huh?" Richie cut in.

Duncan paused. He had been imagining the tongue lashings his father had metered out when his adult son had fallen below the, admittedly high, standards, expected of the only son and heir of the Clan Chieftain. True, the occasions he had felt the full weight of his father's disapproval had been few and far between, he'd generally sought to make him proud, but they were all the more memorable for that. He sighed. He hated it when Methos was right.

"Rich, he would never have disowned me for making a simple mistake."

"Oh right, gotta wait for the super sized deluxe mistake, huh?" Richie scoffed. "Tell me, Mac, did that really make any difference to you? That the guy disowned you for the dying and coming back to life thing, rather than any of the other screw ups you'd made in the past? I mean, big deal. Suddenly, it was real convenient to remember that you weren't actually his kid after all."

"Is that what you think?" Duncan fished. "That my love can forgive you only so much?"

"Your Dad loved you, right?" Richie said quietly. "He got to raise you from since you were a baby and everything. But at the end of the day, he still walked when you didn't turn out like he wanted."

"Hey," Duncan gently turned Richie's arm over and traced his finger along the small, dark, scar, on Richie's wrist that marked his adoption into the Clan Macleod. "I told you that this was for life and I meant it."

"Yeah, but you also said, you said you had to get Connor to agree, as Clan Chief, right?" Richie wouldn't look at him. "So, if he can take back the bike, then he can take back this whole Clan Macleod thing, right? I mean, all it would take would be a good enough screw up on my part and a couple of quick slices and I'd heal like the tattoo was never there."

"Over my dead body," Duncan vowed with as much vehemence as Richie had ever heard. At his startled look, Duncan slipped his arm around Richie's shoulder. "Rich, I love Connor. He is my kinsman, my teacher and my friend. He is no less my brother than if he had shared my mother's womb. But you are my _son_. And nothing. No one. Will ever change that. Not Connor. Not even you. No matter, how badly you screw up I'll never disown you. You have my word."

A younger Richie might have asked him if he was sure. If he really meant what he said. This one knew that he did. He gave a shy smile.

"Well, thanks Mac. That means a lot to me."

"And just for the record, Connor is mortified. He never dreamed that you would assume such a thing. He'll want to make amends."

"He will, huh?" Richie grinned. "Does that mean I don't gotta learn to ride, after all?"

Duncan laughed and ruffled his hair. This lad of his was a piece of work.

"You know, I don't care if you never get within ten feet of a horse. You're already exactly what I wanted in a son."

The following morning, Richie yawned lazily as he stretched and thought about the amount of effort it would take to get out of bed. The autumn sunshine was already streaming in through his open window and in the kitchen below he could hear the others as they gathered in the kitchen.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Connor's voice asked.

"Hope so." Mac's uncertain tone brought Richie fully alert. What did Mac have to be worried about?

"Its not as if the lad has had much reason to put his faith in pieces of paper in the past. How many times has he already been someone else's 'brand new son'? If everything you've done for him over this last decade hasn't convinced him that you'll stand by him, I'll warrant this won't do it." Connor argued.

"He's never been legally adopted before." That was Amanda. When did she get here?

"Exactly," He's been fostered, arraigned, made a ward of the state, but he's never had someone stand up and say, he's mine. And I'm keeping him." Mac sounded determined.

Richie's throat went dry. Adopted? He didn't get adopted, that was for the little kids. By the time he was deemed sufficiently recovered from the trauma of Emily's sudden death to be placed for adoption, he was already, too damaged, too much trouble. And then he was too old and it was much too late.

"For richer for poorer? For better for worse?" Methos voice scoffed. "You couldn't have done this when he was a minor and actually needed a father?"

"He still needs a father," Mac countered. "Its not like you grow out of needing to be loved. And he would never have let me then. He would have said it was 'a load of croak'. But he needs this, he needs to be part of this family in a way he understands."

For some reason, Richie's chest felt really tight and it was really hard to breathe.

"If you are so sure, this is the right thing to do," Methos again. "Why are you such an interesting shade of green?"

"Because," Mac's accent grew deeper, reflecting his anxiety. "I'm still not sure Richie is going to agree."

Hearing the soft knock on his door, Richie turned over, he knew exactly what he was going to do. "Come in."

Duncan came in and stood awkwardly, just inside the door.

"Hey, you're awake."

"Uh huh." Richie sat up. The Scot was hovering like a bashful teenager on a first date. He half expected to be offered a corsage Then Mac frowned slightly.

"Are you alright? You look pale."

Richie's face relaxed into a rueful smile and he shook his head slowly. Of course, Mac would notice. He always noticed. Well, that just made his task that bit easier.

"Um. I kinda heard you," Richie nodded at the open windows. "Downstairs."

"Oh," Duncan looked at the windows and then back at the younger Immortal, searching his face carefully. "And you never felt the need to mention that you could eavesdrop on our conversations before?"

"It didn't seem important before." Richie's face twisted.

Duncan came forward and settled himself on the edge of the bed. "And now?" he asked gently.

In answer, Richie reached out and covered Duncan's hand where it lay on top of the bedclothes. "Look, I know, I haven't said this probably half as often as I should, and I'm sorry, cos well, I wouldn't want you think, cos I do really, I mean .. I don't want that you gotta think that you have to adopt me to prove it, but, well .."

"Rich," Duncan encouraged gently. "Just spit it out."

Richie took a deep breath and gathered his courage. God, he had waited all his life for this moment. Who knew it would be so goddamn scary? But Mac wouldn't laugh at him, and Mac wouldn't let him down.

"I want this. The adoption, I mean. More than anything."

Duncan felt a silly grin spreading across his face, as he reached out and gathered his son in his arms. "Ah, Richie lad, you don't know how happy you've made me."

"About as happy as you've made me," Richie relaxed into his arms. "Mac, you gave me a home and a job when I needed one, but more than that. You took me into your life. Made me a part of your family, introduced me to your friends. Made me feel like I was someone, like I mattered and I'm sorry if I've ever made you doubt any of that.

Duncan shrugged softly. "You've had good reason to be cautious."

"Not with you," Richie looked up at him with earnest blue eyes. "You always keep your promises. I love you, Dad."

Present.

Duncan looked down fondly at his sleeping child, rubbing his thumb gently across his temples. "I'll always be there for him."

"Or what? Die trying?" Methos scoffed. "You think you're protecting him now, but you're just making it harder for him when you do loose."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

"I didn't mean it like that. Although, you know as well as I do, all it takes is a patch of ice, a few wet leaves, a better opponent."

"Sforza was good," Duncan admitted. "But he'll not take me. I have too much to live for."

They both tensed as they felt the wash of an approaching Immortal.

"Looks, like you might get to test that theory sooner than you thought." Methos leaned forward and pulled back the tent flap. Scanning the clearing, he saw a man in dark travelling robes, had dismounted and was unwinding the loose bands of silk, designed to keep the dust out of his eyes and nose, from his face, all the while, levelling threats and curses at the local children who swarmed around his legs.

"He must have followed me." Duncan observed, peering around him, so as not to disturb Richie.

"That's who you fought?"

Duncan raised his brows at the odd note in the ancient Immortal's voice. Beside him, Methos looked pale and positively shaken. Duncan couldn't remember him ever looking quite so rattled. "Aye. What's wrong?"

"That's not Sforza."

"But it must be," Duncan insisted. "No one uses a pseudonym, when facing a challenge. Not even you."

"I don't expect he thought you'd live to know the difference." Methos retorted, grim faced, as he pulled out his Ivanhoe.

"What are you doing?"

"You're a little busy right now," Methos nodded at the sleeping Immortal in Duncan's lap. "Unless, you want me to explain why the broke your word within moments of giving it, when he wakes up and finds you gone?"

"Its my fight." Duncan all but growled. He couldn't understand why Methos was being so unreasonable about this. There was no reason at all why he couldn't delay the challenge until Richie woke up. It was a matter of honour. He said as much.

"Oh get over yourself, Macleod," Methos snapped. "This is far more important than your bloody honour. Let me handle it."

Duncan felt a small trickle of dread run down his spine. Something was very, very, wrong.

"Methos, what's going on?"

"I've made a mistake, that's what, a bloody great, big one," Methos ducked out of the tent. "And now I'm going to put it right. Stay with Richie."

"Wait!" Duncan called after him. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to invite him for tea and scones," Methos snapped over his shoulder. "What the hell, do you think I'm going to do?"


	6. Ch 6

Methos slung the Ivanhoe across his shoulder and walked to the centre of the clearing with an air of nonchalance that he knew would irritate his opponent. When there was only a sword's length between them, he stopped.

"Long time, no see." He said flippantly, in a language that had been dead for over four thousand years.

The dark, flint hard, eyes were the same as ever. The gaze was as cold and mocking as he remembered it. The mouth was a thin, cruel line, that quirked up unnaturally at one corner where a white scar ran across his cheekbone and down over his jugular.

"Methos," It was a statement not a greeting. "I truly thought you'd be dead by now."

"I hoped you were." Methos tone hardened as he let a little of his true feelings seep through.

"Starting to believe your own publicity were you?" The tone was mocking. "Methos, the mythical oldest Immortal? What would your precious Watchers think if they knew the truth?"

"I think I can live with being the second oldest Immortal, for now." Methos shrugged, but there was dark promise underneath his words.

"Ha," The sound was short and harsh. "You think you can take me? You don't have the stomach for it."

Methos' glance flicked reflexively to the scar, as in his minds eye he saw the other, lying helpless at his feet, his life draining away with the bright blood that gushed from his jugular. His neck, pale and exposed, as Methos raised his sword to make the killing stroke.

Except, he had not.

He still remembered the look of scorn that had come with the realisation that he would not. And ever since, this man had despised him for his weakness, for his faith in something so intangible. His own scream of anger and frustration as he threw down his sword, had mocked him down the millennia. Many times since, Methos had wondered if he had made the right, the only choice, as he had once believed. And now, he would soon discover if he had been a fool all this time.

"Oh, and you were just passing, I suppose?" he taunted, gesturing at the barren landscape.

The dark eyes flashed, as the barb hit home. The only reason he would be out here was if he was hunting Macleod. And there was only reason this man would be remotely interested in the five hundred year old Immortal, to alter the outcome of the prophecy, in his favour.

"Out of the mouths of babes and mad men," He acknowledged, as his lips quirked in a cruel smirk. "Who am I to deny my destiny?"

Reflexively, Methos felt his hand tighten around his sword hilt, as all the pain and anger and loss, welled up. His last memory of the kind, gentle, man that had been his first teacher, battered and broken, like a rag doll. "He wasn't mad until you tortured him beyond all reason."

"You still hold a grudge?" He was amused and Methos cursed himself for allowing his emotions to get the better of him. "Poor bookish Methos, who knew only his library and his texts, he died to protect you, you know. And how did you repay him? In your grief and anger, you became the very thing he abhorred."

"I was Death," Methos inclined his head slightly, accepting the slur. Then he raised his eyes in challenge. "And, I was good at it. If you want Macleod, you'll have to go through me."

It was almost a smile. "That can be arranged."

…

Duncan's heart leapt, as the sudden wash of a returning Immortal was swiftly followed by a pair of bright, blue eyes, snapping open to full alertness, instantly darting right and left, wary and suspicious.

"Easy, Tough Guy," Duncan soothed quickly. "Its just us, here."

"I died?" Richie coughed, as he drew fresh air into stale lungs.

"'Fraid so."

"Oh man," Richie blinked. Well, at least he could see again. Almost unconsciously, he flexed his fingers, then his wrists, working his way around his body, a ritual of reassurance after every resurrection that it had worked and he was whole again. "No, matter how many times I go through this, it always sucks."

"Yeah, well," Duncan reached out to support him, as Richie struggled to sit upright. "As someone once told me, it sure as hell beats the alternative."

"I did say that, didn't I?" Richie managed a weak grin. He looked around the small tent. "Where's Methos?"

"You need to re-hydrate," Duncan handed him a cup of water. Recognising the evasive tactic, Richie rolled his eyes. But he was thirsty. Quickly draining the cup he turned expectant eyes on the Scot.

"Well?"

"Eat this first." Duncan passed him a bowl of stew, thick with meal and vegetables.

"Mac," Richie protested, even as his stomach growled loudly in response to the rich aroma.

"Richie, you've been out of it for the last week, dead for the last five hours. Your body needs fuel fluids and rest before you are capable of functioning on anything like normal levels. Now eat."

Richie obediently swallowed two mouthfuls of the stew, before he could bear it no longer.

"He's been challenged, hasn't he?"

Duncan sent him a glare that had caused lesser men to loose control of their bladders. Richie just raised a brow, although he did take another mouthful of stew. Slightly, mollified, Duncan hurrumphed his disapproval, pointedly refilling the bowl to the brim, before he answered.

"Apparently, the man I fought, wasn't Sforza."

"He followed you, here?" Richie guessed, between mouthfuls.

"Aye." Duncan agreed. "Methos knew him, from before."

Richie's eyes widened, as he paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "You mean, as in 'I was death' before?"

"Think so." Duncan made a face.

"How long has he been gone?"

Duncan looked away. "You need to finish the stew first, Rich."

He wasn't just being a mother hen, Richie realised. He needed him fit and ready to fight if necessary. He swallowed the rest of the stew so quickly he burnt the roof of his mouth, but only when the bowl was empty did he ask again.

"How long, Mac?"

"It's been three days."

…

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this." Duncan groused as they picked their way across the refugee camp.

"Because it's the right thing to do." Richie fought to keep his breathing smooth and even and knew he had failed when Mac grasped him tightly by the forearm and all but pulled him along.

"You should be in bed," Truth was he blamed himself. The lad had just died, after a particularly debilitating illness and he had no business dragging him across the desert into almost certain danger.

Except, Richie had refused to be left behind.

Alright so Duncan was proud of him for that. And as Richie had so adroitly pointed out, better to have him close at hand, where he could see how foolhardy he was being, rather than forbid it and have him follow anyway under his own steam.

"I've been in bed," Richie reminded him. "It sucked. What I need now is fresh air and exercise."

"What you need is your head examined."

"You know, you've been spending too much time with Methos."

"God forbid," Duncan paused and scanned the surrounding area. There wasn't much cover around here. They couldn't have fought in the open. "This way," he decided.

For the next few minutes, Richie ducked his head and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Much as he hated to admit it, he wasn't feeling 100 just yet and the heat and the dust were taking it out of him. Alongside, Mac slowed his pace to accommodate him.

"Thanks," Richie shot him a grateful look. "I'm not helping much. Sorry."

"Don't be," Duncan replied, absently, his attention caught by something up above. "There's no-one else I'd rather have by my side."

Richie nodded straightening slightly so he could see what Mac was looking at. "You think that's them?"

"Maybe."

They started forward again, Richie forcing muscles stiff from disuse to bend and flex and move. "It's been three days." He murmured. He couldn't say it, but he wondered if they could both still be alive. Mac squeezed his arm comfortingly.

"I've had fights that have lasted longer. Connor too. You know that."

"Yeah, but this is Methos," Richie pressed his lips together. "He's better than the two of you combined. He outta be able to despatch all comers with a quick slice and dice."

Duncan sighed. He well remembered the day last Summer, when Connor's innate respect for the oldest living Immortal had worn thin in the face of Methos implacable refusal to fight if the challenge could be avoided. In a mood to make some kind of point, Methos had challenged both Highlanders to take him on at once and in a devastating display of swordplay had effectively left them for dead. As he had often re-iterated, just because he didn't choose to fight, didn't mean he couldn't. If this mystery Immortal could keep him at bay for three days, he was good. And if this man could take Methos, then he could take him also. And that would leave Richie.

God, he really hoped Methos won.

…

Methos spat yet another mouthful of sand out of his mouth and hauled him-self up on one elbow to look at his opponent. Until now he had taken comfort in the fact that the other was as tired as he was. But he was starting to reach his limit and he needed to finish this soon.

The buzz of an approaching Immortal gave him his chance. Bless your interfering soul, Macleod, Methos thought, as the other's dark eyes flicked towards the horizon in a moment of distraction. It was only a moment, but it was enough. With a blood curdling, yell, Methos threw his sword like a spear and saw with some satisfaction how it imbedded itself deep in the chest cavity, the handle vibrating with the force of the impact, as the man was felled like a tree.

Awash with relief Methos flopped back onto the sand and closed his eyes. Maybe if he tried really hard he could imagine he was lying on a nice beach in St Tropez. Still, right now, just being alive felt pretty good.

"Methos?" Duncan's voice asked, from a few feet away.

"Mine's a beer thanks."

"Here," A hand raised his head as another pressed a canteen to his lips. It was water. Nasty, warm, chemically reclaimed tasting water at that. But Methos drank it gratefully. Making a superhuman effort he turned his head slightly to look at the Immortal kneeling beside him.

"Thanks."

Richie sat back on his heels and looked at the remains of his former teacher in concern. "You look like hell."

"Yeah, well," Methos struggled to sit up, as abused muscles spasmed and protested. "You should see the other guy." He looked over at the lifeless body, where the pommel of his sword stood tall and proud and totally bloody useless. "Lend me your sword, will you?"

"You going to whack him before he wakes up?" Richie wasn't at all sure how he felt about that.

"In between the lessons on honour and chivalry and how to weave a nice bit of tartan, didn't Macleod, teach you anything about self preservation?" Methos asked testily.

"You were my teacher at least as long as Mac." Richie pointed out.

"Richard," Methos' use of his given name was so rare, Richie almost flinched. "If you ever take three days to kill someone, it's a very good idea to let them stay dead. Is that clear?"

"Crystal." Richie nodded hard.

"Good, now give me your sword. I hurt like hell and the sooner I kill myself the sooner I'll heal."

"Um," Richie hedged. "I left it in my other coat."

"What?" Methos eyes were as dark and angry as Richie had ever seen then. "What the bloody hell were you thinking coming all the way out here without ..," His eyes widened slightly as he felt the stiletto dagger slip easily between his ribs.

"Dying is never easy," Richie informed his corpse with some satisfaction. "But its always better if you don't see it coming."

…

The rush of a returning Immortal, a quick gasp of air and Methos eyes snapped open, instantly alert. "Where is he?"

"Shh," Duncan looked up from where he was stirring a pot over a makeshift fire. "He's asleep and I'll thank you to leave him be."

"Not Richie," Methos sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Ares."

"He's still dead," Duncan looked up sharply. "Ares? As in former Greek God of War, Ares?"

"I thought you spent your youth stuffing haggis and making love to sheep." Methos groused. "Not acquiring a classical education." He really hadn't meant to let that particular piece of information slip just yet. That was the trouble with dying. No matter how many times you did it, it was still bloody disorientating.

He raised his head to see Macleod had gone quite pale.

"What's wrong?"

Roughly ladling a few spoonfuls of bean mush into a bowl, Duncan came over and sat on a rock opposite him. As the Scot passed over the bowl, Methos dug in eagerly with his fingers. The first handful was halfway to his mouth when Duncan replied.

"Did Darius ever say anything to you about Richie?"

Methos sighed and dropped his food back into the bowl. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he gave the Scot his full attention.

"Go on."

"I got a call from a colleague in Paris. He had bought a job lot of books at an auction to raise money for a new roof at St Julian's Church. Hidden in the pages of one of the books was an unopened envelope. Since, it was addressed to a Duncan Macleod, he thought I might be interested in paying an exorbitant sum of money for the family heirloom."

"I take it you didn't go all the way to Paris to retrieve an old love letter?"

"It was from Darius," Duncan still felt that loss, even after all these years. God, how he wished he was here now. "He wrote it on the day he was killed. It was almost as if he knew his death was going to happen."

"He suspected it might," Methos amended. "He didn't know. Very few things in this Universe are that certain."

"So, why didn't he just tell me?" Duncan demanded. "He saw me that morning!"

Maybe, because he didn't think you were ready to hear it, Methos thought. But he wisely kept that opinion to himself.

"What did the note say?"

In answer, Duncan reached into his coat and pulled out the small, leather bound volume that he had travelled day and night to retrieve, struggling across desert and rainforest to reach the small, isolated monastery, as per Darius' instructions. As he turned it over in his hands he saw an odd look settle on Methos face. "Ah, that," His expression went carefully blank. "Have you read it yet?"

"Some of it," Duncan looked pained. "I'm not familiar with all the languages and some of the pages seem to be missing."

"But?" Methos prompted.

"Is it true?" Duncan asked gently. "What happened to you?"

Methos had to look away. That was not what he had expected at all. Macleod had every right to be angry that he had known about the existence of the journal and kept its contents to himself. His sympathy touched him in places that were still raw.

"I survived." He tried for nonchalance.

"I'm sorry." Duncan's voice was a balm to old wounds.

The Scot wanted to say more. That no-body should have to suffer like that. That it explained a lot. But he doubted that the Ancient Immortal would welcome his understanding. Not when he continued to berate himself for the evil he had wrought during his lifetime.

"And the rest?" Duncan looked darkly at Ares' corpse, which lay just outside the warmth of the firelight. His expression softening as his gaze moved to linger on Richie, who slept soundly, his face still touched with lines of exhaustion. Amid the thousand questions that bubbled to the surface, only one really mattered right now.

"Is it possible? Could Richie be my biological son?"


	7. Ch 7

AN – Just a small reminder that this is an AU – which means I have changed a few details from cannon to accommodate my storyline. And I know some people have strong feelings about the whole concept of Immortals being able to have children. Personally, I have seen some stories where the idea was well handled and others where it was totally unbelievable. This is simply my take on the issue. But if you really don't like stories that touch on this then please look away now.

…

It was, Methos reflected, an indication of just how complicated his life had become, that his first reaction was to think this was not, in fact, the most difficult question Macleod could have asked.

"Does it really matter?"

"Not to me," Duncan knew he couldn't love Richie any more if he was his biological son and would certainly care for him no less if it was proved that he wasn't. "But it will matter to him."

And there was the truth of it. For none of them had been able to erase the kernel of self-doubt sown by the years of pain and rejection during Richie's unstable childhood, that, somehow, he wasn't quite good enough to be a real Macleod.

Methos acknowledged that with a pained expression. He had hoped by now that Richie would have got over that idea. The kid really couldn't afford any chinks in his armour if he was to face what was to come. "His mother always said he was your son."

"His mother?" Duncan looked at him for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice came in a whisper of shocked realisation. "Rebecca."

"The dates do seem to fit." Methos agreed.

"Rebecca was his mother." The understanding came with an odd sense of completion, as if merely confirming something that he had always known. "But how?"

"In the usual way I'd imagine," Methos stomach growled loudly and he took a moment to scoop up a handful of food and pop it in his mouth. "Really, Macleod, after five hundred years, you can't still believe we were all found under gooseberry bushes?"

"Of course not," Duncan floundered. Immortals had to come from _somewhere. _They were flesh and blood, after all. "But we can't have children."

"Well, not with mortal women. No."

"But with Immortal women?" Duncan sat up a bit straighter, thinking of Amanda at home in his bed, on his couch, on top of the desk in the office and on the kitchen table for that matter.

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Duncan glared at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Given the average length of our lifespan, it makes biological sense that we don't become fertile until we've proved that we possess the genes to stick around for a while, which can take a few hundred years. And then, we have to be in the right place at the right time. Immortal women are fertile far less frequently than mortal women."

"And the pregnancies?" Duncan raised a sceptical brow. Surely, in all this time somebody would have noticed something.

"If you were an Immortal women, carrying a very vulnerable infant, would you want to advise that fact?" Methos challenged.

"So they care enough to safeguard the foetus, but then they abandon the bairn as soon as it is born?" Duncan scoffed.

"It wasn't always like that. In the beginning, we raised our children. But they were too vulnerable, their Immortality too obvious to any opponent. It made them too easy to use, as bait, as pawns, as revenge. Many died young, much too young," His face tightened with an all too well remembered grief.

"So, you simply gave them away?"

Methos turned his head to look across the campfire, to where Richie had propped himself up on one elbow, his hair still tousled with sleep, but his face hard and angular and his eyes bright with anger.

"How much did you hear?"

"How could you?" Richie ignored his question as his eyes flashed. "How could you do that?"

"Because it was necessary," Methos said, mildly. "To keep our children, our race, safe."

"S_afe?_"

Inwardly, Methos winced at the hollowness in that tone. He knew as well as Macleod, the hardship that Richie had endured as a child. But there was no sympathy in his tone as he answered.

"You survived, didn't you?"

"Its that simple?"

"Believe me. There's nothing simple about it. It's a very complex operation. Have you ever heard of an Immortal infant who wasn't found?"

Duncan considered that. If the child were left long enough, they would die, of thirst, of starvation, of exposure, only to revive again, this time as a perpetual infant. Sooner or later, that infant would be found, but the baby that never grew up would become the lead story on CNN.

"Except, we never know who we are. Not really." Richie countered.

"We are all connected, Rich," Methos corrected gently. "You, me, Connor, Amanda, even that great lumbering Scot over there."

Richie gave him an old fashioned look. "Next thing I know you'll be telling me that Mommy and Daddy's love makes a magic circle all around me to keep out all the monsters."

"Your Mother loved you very much. She was determined, custom or not, that you would know that you were wanted and cared for."

"You tried to stop her." Richie realised, his tone rich with accusation.

"I tried to warn her," Methos corrected. "But there was no reasoning with her. She forced herself to leave you, so nobody could make the connection between her and the foundling. But she wanted to be the one to raise you. So, she came forward as a foster parent."

"Warn her about what?" Duncan asked noticing Richie had gone quite pale.

"Some things, no matter how much we want them," Methos flicked a quick, venomous glance in the direction of Ares body. "Are not meant to be."

"Emily," Richie spoke in a small voice. "Emily was my real mom?"

"What?" Duncan stared. "But she died, of a brain haemorrhage."

"She died, because she was murdered," Methos ran a tired hand over his face, remembering those dark days. "Some fast acting poison, that caused almost instant death."

"And the medical records?" Duncan had looked at those records. There was nothing in them to suggest foul play.

"Changed. The last thing we needed was a Police investigation. Its not like we could have produced a body for forensic examination," Methos threw a compassionate glance in Richie's direction. "As soon as she revived, you were the first thing she thought of. She wanted to go back for you. But she had been declared dead at the scene, in front of half of Seacouver. There was no way you could both return to your old life."

"We could have gone someplace else," Richie argued weakly. "Got a new identity."

"And explained to a five year old, how Mommy had died and popped back to life? You know better than that," Methos rebuked mildly. "Besides, the danger was not yet passed. We did the best for you we could," Methos had the grace to look a bit abashed. "In the circumstances."

"Circumstances? What circumstances?" Richie asked, suspiciously.

"Some things are meant to be." Methos shrugged.

"First of all, could you stop saying that?" Richie scowled. "Second of all, are you saying I had to have a sucky childhood to make me a better person?"

"Well, I wouldn't have put it exactly like that."

"How 'exactly' would you have put it?"

"Look, the 20th Century wasn't the ideal training ground for would be Immortals. Do you really think playing Samurai Shodown on the Gameboy perfect Mommy and designer Daddy bought you for Christmas, would have equipped you to hold your own against others with centuries more experience? We can only teach you so much. You have to have to the strength, the steel and the guile, to see it through."

Richie considered that. He had long since lost count of the number of times his ability to pick a lock, provide a distraction, or simply know when to run like hell, had saved his skin. If he had grown up as a so-called 'normal' kid in a sitcom perfect home, would he, could he, have survived so long? If he were honest with himself, the answer was probably not.

"I guess, there's a reason I'm the youngest surviving Immortal then, huh?" He gave a twisted smile.

"More than you know." Methos sighed.

"No, it canna be," Duncan looked up in barely concealed alarm. "For Lord's sake, Methos, you canna truly believe that we should all stand aside and let the lad face him. T'would be akin to slaughter."

"Um, Mac?" Richie interrupted. "What are you talking about?"

"Its not like it was my idea," Methos scowled at Macleod. "I only wrote it all down because after a couple of thousand years I was worried that I might forget a few things, the way to the market, the name of my last four wives, the fate of the Universe, that kind of thing."

"Wrote what down?" Richie looked from one to the other. "What's going on here?"

"Have you ever even tried to kill him?" Duncan challenged between clenched teeth.

"Of course not! Do you _see_ the world coming to an end?" Methos threw up his hands.

"He tortured you," Duncan threw at him. "He took you and your teacher captive. Your first teacher, a man who was like a father to you, a gentle soul who borne nobody any malice. But he tortured him, until he went mad, all the while forcing you to watch. And when he died, he turned his attentions to you and for the next five hundred years he kept you chained up in the dark, with the rats and the vermin, whilst he inflicted upon you every horror known to mankind and a few more he invented just for the hell of it, until you became so evil, he thought you could never be saved. Then he let you loose to wreck your own brand of havoc across the earth. And you did. Thousands of innocent souls died at your hand and those you did not kill, you taught to be as evil and twisted as you were, until your legacy spanned generations, because of him. Because of what he did to you and yours."

"I know that," Methos moved so fast, Duncan was flat on his back in the sand, with a knife at his throat before he could even draw breath. The face above him was twisted almost beyond recognition. The lips curled in a feral snarl. "And I haven't forgotten a single thing that he taught me."

"Hey, back off."

Richie's indignant shout rang in Duncan's ears, an accompaniment to the blood pounding in his ears. But he forced himself to keep his voice calm and even.

"And now you want to let him live?" Duncan mocked. He hardened his tone. "Take his head. Make him pay for what he did."

For a moment, he thought he had succeeded. The raw hate that flickered in Methos' eyes a testament to the depth of of his feelings. But then it was gone. The knife disappeared into an unseen pocket as Methos sat back on his heels.

"If I could," His expression was haggard and his tone hollow as he met the Scot's searching gaze. "By all the god's Macleod, don't you think I would if I could?"

"You're that sure?" Duncan felt physically sick.

Methos nodded once and looked away. His expression closed.

"Alright, so now I'm pissed," Richie spoke up loudly. "What the hell is going on with you two?"

"I'm sorry," Duncan looked awkward. "I should never have said all those things."

"Why not? They're true." Methos shrugged lightly, but the casual veneer didn't reach his eyes.

"They used to be true. They're not anymore," Duncan put an apologetic hand on his shoulder. "They haven't been for a long time. I'm sorry."

"So, are we OK here, now?" Richie's voice asked hesitantly, after a moment. "I mean, nobody is gonna be chopping anybody's head's off, right?"

"No," Duncan met Methos' eyes in painful understanding. "Nobody is going to be chopping anybody's head off. Not today."

"You mean, expect the dead guy, right?" Richie looked in the direction of Ares. "Cos, its pretty hot here guys. He's starting to smell pretty rank."

There was a small silence.

"About that," Duncan wondered how you were supposed to tell your son that he was apparently destined to save the world.

"In the last days," Methos spoke up. "In a place out of time, the last shall meet the first, each carrying, the strength and hope of all with them, and so it will be decided and henceforth there will be only one power across the face of the earth."

"What?" Richie shook his head. "Man, you sound like some old straight to video movie. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you have to be the one to kill Ares." Methos nodded in the direction of the corpse.

"What?" Richie yipped.

"Break it to him gently, why don't you?" Duncan scowled.

"Compared to the way I found out," Methos said pointedly. "I am."

"Why me?" Richie protested. "Its your fight. You started it. I thought I wasn't supposed to interfere. I'm sure there are rules about that. Right, Mac?"

"He doesn't mean here and now, Rich," Duncan cut in soothingly. "Look, we've all had a long day. I'll go and bury Ares, until we decide what we are going to do with him. There's plenty of food on the fire. You both need to eat and rest up before we get any further into this."

Richie knew that he was talking more about him than Methos, the ancient Immortal had enough juice to bounce back pretty fast. Still, he appreciated the gesture of equality. He waited until the Scot was out of earshot before he asked quietly.

"He's really my Dad?"

…

Duncan was scattering the last few mounds of sand over the grave when he felt the buzz of an approaching Immortal.

"I thought you might like a hand." Richie's voice offered, diffidently.

Duncan paused and rested his hands on the top of the shovel, he had brought out expressly for this purpose. The odds were that someone would be dead, after all and it never did to leave bodies out in this heat. A small smile flickered across his lips, at the familiar tactic, but he didn't turn around.

"And I thought I told you to rest?"

"I can rest, right here," Richie settled himself down onto a rock. "I guess, I am a little tired and it's a pretty long walk back to the campsite."

Now Duncan did turn around, letting his amusement show.

"After almost one hundred years, you still think you can con me? You couldn't just say you wanted to talk?"

"It was worth a try," Richie grinned unashamedly at him. "Besides, its fun. You wouldn't want me to get rusty or anything, would you?"

Duncan sat down on the rock next to him. God, there was so much to say. He had no idea where to start. So, he decided to start with what came naturally.

"And this is why you and Amanda, broke into that top security jewellers the other week? So, you wouldn't get _rusty_?"

"You know, I knew hooking up you guys would turn out to be a bad idea," Richie groused. "You have way too many ways to get stuff outta her these days."

"I have ways of getting 'stuff' out of you, as well." Duncan reminded him, flexing his fingers with tickling intent near the younger Immortal's ribs.

"Stop that," Richie slapped his hand away. Duncan's finger's advanced again. "Don't do that."

"So, spill, Tough Guy."

"Hey, new security technologies are coming along all the time," Richie defended himself. "A guy has to keep on top of his game. We handed all the stuff back to the Cops."

"All of it?" Duncan raised a brow.

"Alright so most of it," Richie admitted. "Look, somehow the store had acquired one of Rebecca's crystals. You know, the ones she gave her students? Amanda was pretty upset about it. That's why we broke in. But we gave everything else back, I swear."

"So why take it?"

"Because it was fun," Richie's grinned. "No harm, no foul, right?"

Duncan bit his lip. Amanda hadn't mentioned the crystal and he wondered why. Surely, she knew he would have helped her with something so important?

"So, are we okay?" Richie looked up at him.

"I don't know," Duncan looked back at him, in all seriousness. "Are we?"

"I think we are way better than OK, _Dad_," Richie gave him a shy smile.

"You heard that, huh?" Duncan was gratified to see that he looked absurdly pleased by the idea.

"It feels good, Mac," Richie confided softly. "Right. You know?"

"I know," Duncan agreed. He too, felt an odd sense of completion. As if it was meant to be. Still. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth All those wasted years. The lad was his son. He deserved to have been raised by those who loved him. He wondered why Rebecca had never seen fit to tell him the truth. And now she was dead and he would never know.

Perhaps he should ask Methos, he thought grimly.

"Mac, please, don't. Don't beat yourself up over this," Richie put a hand on his shoulder. "Ever since we met, you've been the best Dad. You've always been there for me when I needed you and, I never thought I'd say this, but maybe it all worked out for the best."

"You canna think that." Duncan swallowed hard at the knowledge of all the suffering and heartache his wee lad had endured.

"I'm not saying it was all fun," Richie admitted. "But it wasn't all bad either. And you gotta be honest, you wouldn't have wanted some sweater wearing Momma's boy for a kid, now would you?"

"Aw, Richie lad." Duncan slipped an arm around his shoulder. Hoping that his gesture would say all the things his constricted throat could not.

"Besides," Richie's light shrug, did nothing to disguise the sudden tension in his shoulders. "Maybe, you couldn't have changed it."

"Rich?"

"Some things are meant to be, right?" The thin note of fear in Richie's voice would have gone unnoticed by most people

"Methos told you?" Duncan scowled in irritation. The man had waited almost five thousand years. Could he not have held off one more day until the lad had had a good meal and a decent night's sleep?

"About how I am supposed to be the champion of all the good little Immortals and Ares is like the cheerleader for all the evil dudes. And, one day pretty soon, I'm supposed to square up to him and, no pressure, but whoever wins will decide the fate of the world? Yeah, he told me."

"You don't have to do it all by yourself." Duncan assured him. The Prophecy had been very clear about that. He, Methos, Connor and Amanda, all had their roles to play. It was only in the final battle that Richie and Ares would face one another over crossed swords.

"Methos said that was why Ares was out here," Richie didn't sound reassured "To whack you. 'Cos, you guys are my strength. He figured if he took you outta the picture then I'd be toast."

"I'm not leaving you, remember?" Fear as he recalled Richie's fevered distress at the mere thought of Duncan dying and leaving him to face the Game alone, made his tone gruff. "We'll face this thing together, my lad."

"Well good." Richie's face twisted.

"Hey," Duncan nudged him. "Come on, none of that. Talk to me."

"I'm scared, Mac," Richie swallowed hard. "Really scared. I don't think I can do this."


	8. Ch 8

Duncan Macleod looked down at the pale, pinched face of his son and wondered how he would feel if he had just been told the fate of the world rested on his shoulders.

He had absolutely no idea what to say to him..

"Richie, lad ..."

"C'mon, Mac. You don't believe all this crap about the end of the world," Richie gave him a quick vulnerable look. "Do you?"

"I believe in the Gathering." Duncan kept his tone even. "This prophecy thing. I don't know, Rich." He ran a hand through his hair. He feared to tell Richie how many of the things he'd read in Methos' journal had already come to pass. Damn Methos and his manipulating ways. "How could he know about this and not tell us?"

He didn't realise he had said that last out loud until Richie gave him a rueful look. "Great idea, Mac," He rolled his eyes. "Let's give me a hundred years or so to look forward to it. Can you imagine how I would have reacted if he had told me when we first met?"

"I didn't meet the whole saving the world thing. I meant that you are my son."

"Yeah, well. That too."

That comment earned him a sharp glance. "You wouldn't have wanted to know?"

"I don't know," Richie shrugged as he struggled to explain his feelings. "I mean, I always figured Emily was dead, but I used to lie awake nights wondering why my Dad didn't want me. You were the first person in a long time that did want me. Not 'cos someone was paying you to look after me or 'cos some Social Worker had stuck me on you. But 'cos you cared. That meant a lot to me. But it scared me too. You think I was bad with the stuff I did to make you prove that you were for real? I would have been ten times worse if I had thought you were my Dad."

He had a point, Richie had never had to work for Duncan's attention. He'd admitted more than once that the Immortal had given him more attention than any other adult he'd ever known, except perhaps Emily. But they both knew his teenage antics had been a thinly veiled cry for constant reassurance that Duncan would care if he were in trouble, sick or hurt.

Still.

"You were quick enough to accept Jack Ryan or whatever his name really was." Duncan said, slightly huffily. Even after all these years, the very idea of that two-bit con artist trying to take advantage of his lad raised his bile.

Richie's soft bark of laughter surprised him.

"Mac, the guy was living in some flea bag hotel in the wrong part of town and hanging with some pretty shady people. You think I bought that line about him trapping his finger in a door or whatever? He was a looser. Which was pretty much all I figured I deserved in a Dad. You were different."

"Yeah, I loved you."

"Even back then?" Richie looked faintly surprised. "You hardly knew me."

Duncan gave an awkward shrug. He couldn't say himself when he'd first started to care so deeply about the teen. He remembered feeling something, almost akin to panic, at Connor's oblique offer to take the lad off his hands. An offer he had instantly declined. But it wasn't until the hustler posing as Jack Ryan had appeared on the scene that Duncan had realised that he had come to think of Richie as _his_ son. His anger at the way the man was using a good kid like Richie, overlaid with jealously when he saw the way Richie looked at the man, or heard the note of eagerness in his voice when he talked about "his cousins and stuff."

"I knew enough to love you. Still do, as a matter of fact."

"Yeah well, me too," Richie smiled fondly at him. "Cept I didn't know how to tell you back then."

"I knew, Rich."

He had seen it in the in how Richie had needed his support in seeking his roots. The slightly desperate way he had sought his approval of Jack. The yearning in his eyes when Duncan has assured him that he got to choose who he wanted to be. As if, he had already found what he really wanted.

"What was she like?" Richie asked quietly.

Duncan knew he was asking about Rebecca.

"You don't remember her, huh?"

"Not much. How she laughed, the smell of her perfume. The way it felt when she held my hand as we crossed the street. That kinda stuff. I don't remember her face."

"I've got some photos," Duncan dug into his pocket and pulled out his comlink. Powering it up he selected 'images' and clicked through the albums, until he found the one he was looking for. "This was taken the summer before you were born."

Richie shot him a look of surprise. "You have all your old photos upgraded?"

"Not all of them," Duncan looked sadly at the picture. Rebecca stood on a viewpoint, overlooking the sea, her hair trailing out behind her. Richie leaned over.

"She was pretty."

"Yeah, she was."

Beside him, Richie stiffened and he bit his lip hard. Duncan sighed. He didn't need one hundred years of practice to figure out what was bothering him.

"Rich, she loved you, more than anything. I'm sure of that."

"So, why didn't she come?" Richie asked quietly.

Duncan didn't have an answer to that. Richie had been Immortal for almost a year before Rebecca died and living with him for more than a year before that. Amanda would certainly have told her mentor that Duncan had a new student. Rebecca would have had plenty of opportunity to engineer a "chance" meeting.

"I don't know, Rich. She must have had her reasons." Perhaps Amanda would know something. It was the middle of the night in America right now, but he made a mental note to call her in her morning. He had a feeling, Richie was going to need all the help and support he could provide to get through this.

"You loved her, right?" Richie's voice begged for reassurance that his parents had cared for one another. That it was something more than a one night stand.

"I love her still." Duncan answered truthfully.

"So, why didn't you guys stay together?"

"I guess," Duncan's face twisted, stuck suddenly by what he had taken for free will now seemed in hindsight to be pre-ordained. "Some things are just not meant to be."

"Don't you start," Richie scowled at him. "You guys are starting to make me feel like the lead in the school nativity play."

Duncan grinned devilishly. "Sorry, to disappoint Rich, but there was nothing immaculate about your conception, in fact, it was really quite ..,"

"Ugh. Don't_ tell _me!" Richie elbowed him sharply to shut him up. "Haven't you learnt anything in the last five hundred years? No kid wants to hear about their parents' sex life!"

Duncan grinned. It did his heart good to hear Richie laugh. The last thing he wanted was the lad brooding on the fact that he was some kind of pre-ordained saviour of the world. That kind of pressure could lead the best of men to madness.

"Just remember Rich," He butted him gently. "Whatever else happens, you're still you."

"Actually," Richie's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Maybe, someone should warn Methos, that I'm not very good at keeping to the script."

"Yeah?" Duncan grinned down at him. For as long as he had known him, Richie had lived by his wits. How many seventeen year olds, when faced with an enraged Immortal would have thought about setting him on fire? Connor had summed it up nicely, with Richie the only thing to expect was the unexpected.

"OK. I swore I was never ever gonna tell you this story," Richie shifted slightly on the rock, as if even now he was having second thoughts about sharing this. "My first nativity play, I was the innkeeper. So, when Mary and Joseph came along looking for a room at the inn, I told them we had plenty of vacancies and to come on inside. I remember, Mrs Jennings was real mad, but Emily just laughed. She said," He paused. He couldn't believe that he had forgotten this part. "She said, it was all my Dad's fault. That he was a bad influence on me."

"She didn't mean me, Rich," Duncan told him gently. "I left for Paris, right after."

"No, she meant Jack," Richie gave him a compassionate look. "Is that why you guys broke up? Because she met some other guy?"

"I don't know, Rich," Duncan shrugged. "She never mentioned anyone to me. I think, she was she was just so much older than me. There was always a part of her that I could never quite touch. As if she had once known perfect happiness and let it slip through her fingers. Compared to her, I was still young and I'd always felt I was searching for something else. I couldn't have told you what it was, but I knew I'd recognise it when I found it."

"Tessa." Richie nodded.

"Aye."

"I'm glad Mac. You two were great together. Tessa was great." Richie said wistfully.

"The three of us were great together," Duncan slipped a comforting arm around his shoulders. "You made us a family, Rich."

"Yeah," Richie smiled. "I hadn't had that in such a long time. I mean, Teresa was great and all, but I really missed having a Dad."

It took every ounce of Duncan's self control not to stiffen so that Richie would notice. He had always assumed that Jack Ryan was some kind of lightweight long gone before Richie was old enough to remember him much. It was not an unreasonable scenario, if Emily was a young woman who had married in haste to a man who found himself unsuited to family life. But if Emily was indeed Rebecca Horne, then such a scenario was unthinkable.

"Rich, how much do you remember about Jack Ryan?" he asked quietly.

"Not much," Richie was unconcerned. "He wasn't around all the time. Emily said he had to work hard to keep us safe. That's why I figured he must be a spy or something."

He paused and Duncan's heart sank as he almost felt him put the pieces of the puzzle together for himself. "Oh shit. You think he was one of us, don't you?"

"Maybe," Duncan made a face. Rebecca had formed deep emotional ties with mortals before. But he couldn't imagine her entrusting the safety of her child to anyone other than another of their kind. "Do you remember anything about him?"

"Like did he have a big sharp sword?" Richie scoffed. "I think I would have noticed that."

"Rich," Duncan squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. The lad still had a tendency to be obnoxious when he was truly upset. "Just try, OK?"

"Snowy, alright?" Richie said defensively. "That's all I remember about him."

"Snowy?"

"He was a stuffed horse," Richie looked faintly embarrassed. "I was just a kid, remember? I don't know, I guess it was my birthday or something. Anyway, it was real late by the time he got home, I'd tried to stay up as long as I could, but I must have fallen asleep on the couch, because when I woke up I was in my room and he was sitting on my bed with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, a beer and this stuffed horse."

"He bought you a_ white _horse?" It seemed a reasonable assumption that any horse called snowy would likely be white. Duncan felt his mouth dry up. In the tales of his childhood, a white horse always lived longer than a dark horse so they were believed to be a charm against dying young.

"He said he wanted to get me a real one but Mom wouldn't let it in the house," Richie recalled. "Man, I loved that horse. I took it everywhere with me. Emily used to have to bribe me with chocolate brownies to put him in the wash. After she died, it was the only thing I got to keep, for a while anyways."

"What happened to it?" Duncan asked gently, aware he was stepping on sensitive ground.

"One of my foster parents decided I was way too old to have a stuffed animal and threw it in the trash." Richie said bitterly, his expression tightening with anger as he remembered how the last vestige of his family had been ripped from his arms.

"How old were you?" Duncan asked gently.

"I was seven. She got mad cos I refused to called my foster father, Daddy. I kept insisting that my real Dad would be back to get us. Snowy and me. Like he'd promised."

"He did?" Duncan sat up a little straighter.

"It was just a dream," Richie shrugged. "Or something. I don't remember anything about that time all that well."

Something in Richie's tone made Duncan take notice.

"Tell me anyway." He suggested.

The past.

Five year old Richie Ryan curled up on his side in the large room and hugged his beloved horse to his chest, listening to the sounds of seven sleeping little boys coming from the beds around him. At home, he'd had his own room, with his own bed, painted red, just cos he liked it, toys on the floor, pictures on the wall and a Mommy who always shut the wardrobe door so the monsters couldn't get out.

He didn't like this room. It was big and draughty, with high ceilings that went up almost further than he could see and the big window at the end had bars on it. Like a jail. The lady had who brought him her had laughed a little too brightly at that and told him not to be silly, the bars were just there to keep little boys safe from falling out.

It still felt like a jail.

And there was no Mommy. They had tried to tell him that she had gone to a better place. But Richie knew that if she had gone someplace nicer than this she would have been sure to take him with her. Besides, he knew she was dead. The older kids had read about it in the paper and told him.

He wanted to go home.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" The slightly amused tone asked.

"Daddy!" Richie sat bolt upright and threw himself into his father's arms, burying his face in the thick, familiar, warmth of his sweater.

"Shh," Daddy hugged him tight. "Remember our game? We have to be real quiet, so we don't get caught."

Richie nodded, uh-huh, eagerly. He liked their game. Daddy would sneak up after he was supposed to be asleep to feed him cookies and tell him stories.

"Good," Daddy scooped him up out of bed, blankets and all and started to carry him out of the room and down the corridor. Richie just nestled against his chest, happy to be with his Daddy again.

"Oh bugger," Daddy stopped.

Richie wondered if he should remind him that Mommy didn't like him saying that. But then Daddy was walking again, carrying him back to his bed.

"Daddy?" Richie squirmed slightly against his chest. Didn't his Daddy know he didn't want to go back there?

"Richie, listen to me," Daddy sat him back on his bed. "I have to go away for a bit. I wanted to take you with me, but that's not going to be possible now."

"Are you going to do something dangerous?" Richie's face crumpled. He knew that spies sometimes had to do dangerous stuff. But he didn't want his Daddy to get hurt.

"Don't worry about me I've had lots of practice of taking care of myself," His Daddy's face wrinkled in concern. "You on the other hand, haven't been eating your veggies, have you?"

Richie squirmed slightly. How did his Daddy know that he hadn't been eating his vegetables? Or much of anything else for that matter? He didn't realise how thin he had become.

"Mommy would want you to eat." Daddy chided gently.

"Even cabbage?" Richie made a face.

"Well, obviously not cabbage," Daddy shook his head. "Only Donkeys and Peasants eat that."

"You're silly, Daddy." Richie giggled.

Suddenly, Daddy stiffened and looked over his shoulder. The he turned back and put his hands on Richie's shoulders.

"I have to go now, but I will be back for you, just as soon as I can," Richie blinked. He could feel his chin quivering. He didn't want his Daddy to go. But he could see a tear sliding down his Daddy's cheek. He had never seen Daddy cry before. He must be sad about Mommy too. So, Richie bit his lip and tried to be brave. He didn't want to make his Daddy feel any worse.

Daddy kissed him. "Love you, kid."

"I love you too, Daddy." Richie chirruped.

But his Daddy was already gone.

The present.

"See? Just a stupid dream," Richie picked at his sleeve. "Dumb, huh?"

"Are you sure it wasn't real?" Duncan wondered. Any Immortal worth their salt would have been able to get in and out of the Orphanage without being noticed, if they really wanted to.

"Back then, I thought it was real. I told Sister Mary my Daddy had been to see me but she said no one could get into the Orphanage after it was all locked up for the night and I shouldn't tell such wicked lies. Now, I don't know, Mac. It's been almost a hundred years. If it was real, why hasn't he come looking for me before now?"

Duncan bit his lip and debated whether he should voice the obvious truth. That whoever it was might be already dead.

"It wasn't a dream," Methos clear voice carried easily across the clearing, from where he was standing just out of range. "And I came just as soon as it was safe to do so."

Duncan looked over and met his eyes in something akin to disbelief. But Methos looked deadly serious. "It was you? You were Jack Ryan?"

"Guilty as charged." Methos gave an uncomfortable shrug.

Richie was absolutely still.


	9. Ch 9

"You _left _him there."

Duncan hissed the words, through clenched teeth, in barely restrained fury. All the years that he had lain awake nights and wished that he could have given Richie the loved and secure childhood that he had enjoyed were contained in that single sentence.

"It was necessary."

Methos didn't even spare him a glance as he crossed the clearing. His eyes were fixed on Richie. Instinctively, Duncan stepped in front of the lad, shielding him from the Ancient Immortal's view.

"Necessary? You left a traumatised child to the mercy of a system, which neglected and abused him. How the hell can you justify that?"

"I left him on Holy Ground," Methos corrected, finally shifting his gaze to acknowledge the Scot. "What the bloody hell would you expect me to do, Macleod? These people thought nothing of murdering his own Mother right in front of his eyes, just on the off chance that it might tip the balance of the Prophecy in their favour. Do you really think they had his best interests at heart? I had a choice. I could take him with me, and most likely get him killed in the process. Or I see that he lived."

"At any cost?" Duncan sneered. He had thought Methos capable of some cold-blooded things in the past, but to sacrifice the happiness and security of a child to the whim of some possible Prophecy, seemed beyond the pale.

"At least he survived."

Duncan felt every muscle in his body tense as his conscience heard the unspoken accusation. Left to his care Richie had been made Immortal, too soon and too young for anyone's comfort.

"Oh, by all the god's, Macleod, I didn't mean it like that."

"No? Then how exactly did you mean it?"

"Alright!" Rich surged to his feet and glared at both men. "Just cut it out, will you?"

"Richard," Methos stepped forward, his eyes dark with remorse. "If I could have done ..."

"No," Richie cut him off, his voice tight with pain. "Don't even go there, alright?"

"Aye," Duncan stepped up protectively beside his son. "I think you've done more than enough already."

"Oh great Mac," Richie scoffed. "Why don't you challenge him and have done with it? That would really make me feel a whole lot better." He looked from one to the other, as they both stood open-mouthed. "You know, I can't deal with this right now. I'm going back to the camp. Don't even try and follow me!"

The two older Immortals stared at the figure retreating swiftly into the dark of the desert night.

"He's going to get a chill, dressed like that." Duncan murmured. It got very cold in the desert at night and, Immortal or not, Richie was still not fully recovered from his recent illness.

"He's going to get himself lost," Methos groused. "The least you could have done was to teach him to track properly."

"Then maybe you and Rebecca should have chosen another city to raise him in. There weren't many quokka entrails in downtown Seacouver."

"You know Macleod, you really need to look the word Prophecy up in a dictionary."

"Oh come on," Duncan rolled his eyes. "Its just co-incidence that Tessa and I decided to move to Seacouver as well. We looked at five or six different cities when we decided to leave Paris. We could have chosen any of them."

"Except you didn't."

"So, for the last five thousand years every move you've made has been dictated by this Prophecy?" Duncan scoffed.

Well, maybe not every move Methos acknowledged to himself silently. He was fairly sure a couple of his marriages were entirely his own fault. But looking back, it was both reassuring and terrifying to realise how many of his supposed choices had lead to this point. "Did it never occur to you that there was a reason that I have lived so long?"

The emotional part of Duncan's brain was reluctant to accept anything so facile as destiny as an excuse for the hardships his lad had endured. But the logical part had to acknowledge that the evidence that _something _was going on here was becoming too numerous to ignore. And then there was Richie. The lad was clearly hurting and Duncan was prepared to put his own feelings aside to do what was best for him.

For now.

"So, what does your precious Prophecy say we should do next?" he muttered with bad grace.

* * *

Richie Ryan tensed as the presence of another Immortal washed over him. He had no idea how long he had been sitting here, alone with his thoughts. But he knew it wasn't nearly long enough.

"Unless you want to feel the sharp end of my sword, I'd suggest you don't stick around." He warned darkly.

"Now there's an offer a girl doesn't get every day." A female voice purred.

"Amanda," Richie nodded. "Of course," He wasn't sure whether to be grateful that _they _had respected his wishes and stayed away, or annoyed that _they _clearly thought that he was still a slave to his teenage hormones at heart if they had brought her out here to win him over.

"So," He asked, without looking at her. "Which one of them called you?"

"They both did," Amanda kicked off her shoes and settled down beside him in the dust. "Duncan's worried sick that he's going to loose you to Methos."

That got Richie's attention. He turned his head and searched Amanda's profile.

"Did he say that?"

"Well, not in so many words," A shrug. "But you have to know that's what he's feeling."

Richie pressed his lips together. It had taken him a long time to realise that Mac needed him as much as he needed the Highlander. "Figures he'd find some way to make this about him," he snorted, not without affection. "He's like the poster boy for guilt."

They sat in silence for a while. Richie looked up at the stars, picking out familiar constellations from unfamiliar angles. He remembered how Mac had patiently taught him the name of each cluster and the means of navigating by the stars, but it was Methos who had told him the ancient myths and legends behind each name. He sighed.

"He always loved you, you know." Amanda murmured and Richie knew they weren't talking about Mac anymore.

"He left me."

"It wasn't his fault."

"Oh please," Richie scoffed. "The Prophecy made me do it? I could come up with better excuses than that when I was in the first grade."

"But they wouldn't have been true."

"Not you as well." Richie rolled his eyes. Amanda was such an advocate for the consumer society; he sometimes forgot that she was way older than Mac and just as likely to believe in weird stuff. And that scared him. Because the more people who believed in it, the more it might be true. Even thinking about that made his throat tighten.

"I'm sorry." Amanda said softly.

They sympathy in her tone did little to settle Richie's nerves. "You really believe all this stuff, huh?"

"Rebecca believed in it and I believed in her. She never gave me any reason not to."

"Yeah, right." Richie couldn't talk about that now. It was too raw, too new. He had always believed that Emily had loved him until the day she died. To discover that she too had left him was almost more than he could bear.

"Oh Richard," Amanda put her arm around him. "It wasn't like that. She loved you so much. She did everything she could to keep you with her. But after she was killed, it was too dangerous. And when you moved in with Mac, she wanted to come to you, but she was afraid you would recognise her."

"I wouldn't have been angry, I just .. I wish I could have seen her." Richie blinked hard and scrubbed angrily at his face. After almost a century this should hurt so much. But it did.

"I know," Amanda stroked his hair. "But she couldn't risk you realising that you were destined to be Immortal. And after you died, she just wanted to give you some time to adjust. You were still so young. She always thought she had plenty of time."

Richie was still trying to get his head around the concept of time as appreciated by his elders. He knew there were times when Duncan and Connor had not seen each other for a half century or so and neither of them had thought anything of it. Mac and Amanda hadn't seen each other for several decades when he had first met her in Paris. He had always kinda figured he would never live long enough to experience the concept. If the end of the world really was nigh, he might be right about that.

"How did it happen?" He needed to know that much at least. "I mean, when so many people think it's not possible?"

"No-one really knows for sure what the biology is," Amanda shrugged. "We think it has something to do with the power of the Quickening. If she is fertile and he is old enough, and you'd be surprised how rarely that happens, a pregnancy might occur if..."

"Only might?" Richie interrupted.

"Richard, dearest, no matter what the contraceptive companies might wish you to believe not every union results in a child."

"Oh man," Richie shook his head. He could believe he was almost a hundred and he was having this talk. It had been embarrassing enough the first time he had had it with Mac. And Connor. And Methos.

"Anyway, Immortal pregnancies aren't like mortal ones. We could hardly be expected to bear the child for nine months. What if we were challenged?"

"So, how long?"

"About forty eight hours. And afterwards our bodies heal themselves so there's no sign of a delivery."

"Oh." Richie supposed that made sense. If you only carried a child for the weekend then he supposed you wouldn't care for it as deeply as if you had borne it for nine months. That would make it easier to give the kid up.

"Oh honey, nothing about any of this is ever easy." Amanda corrected, when he voiced that thought. Her voice was tight with pain, raising an uncomfortable suspicion in Richie's mind.

"Amanda, have you ever ..?"

"Once," Amanda wouldn't look at him. "He died much too young."

"Was he ..?" Richie couldn't ask.

"Duncan's?" Amanda shook her head. "No, this was long before I met him. But afterwards, when I realised how vulnerable our children are, I vowed I would never have another. In that, at least, mortal ways can work for us too."

"'Manda," Richie blushed. This was way too much information. It was only later, much later that he would realise the identity of Amanda's child and realise why she was so reluctant to repeat the experience of motherhood.

"You need to talk to Methos." Amanda advised.

"Maybe, I don't want to hear his excuses." Richie countered. Maybe, he had had enough of that from his various foster fathers growing up. He didn't want to hear how all this was somehow his fault. That he had brought it on himself.

"You know, I never knew my father," Amanda spoke softly. "Because Methos killed him."

"_What_?" Richie looked at her, horrified.

"Its not like you think. My Mother was taken at sword point, against her will. It was just misfortune that it was one of her fertile times. She fell pregnant whilst she was still in his power, so he waited until she was delivered of the child and then he sold me like I was no better than an Ox or a Pig. Methos hunted him down and made sure that he paid for the violence he had visited upon my Mother. Then he searched for me. He made sure that when I became one of us I was returned to Rebecca's care. Do I blame him that he didn't find me sooner? Or do I love for him for the sacrifices he made to give me the family he never had? Ever since that time he has always been as a father to me."

"Rebecca was your Mom too?" Richie wasn't sure he had heard that part right.

"One of many things we have in common." Amanda smiled at him. "Do you really think I would have taught just anyone how to disable Connor's security system?"

"So, my sister is sleeping with my Dad?" Richie made a face. "Isn't that kinda gross?"

"Half sister," Amanda corrected. "And I'm not related to Mac at all. Not even remotely."

"Well oookay," Richie supposed that, at least Amanda had never tried to be a mother to him. She was always more of a younger Aunt, or, he realised with sudden clarity, an older sister.

Which still left the moral of her story. Did he resent Methos for a decision he had, apparently, been forced into all those years ago? Or did he forgive the man whom he had considered part of his family for the last eighty years?

"I have something for you." Amanda changed the subject.

"Really? Its not my birthday for another week." Richie tried to lighten the mood

"I know. Rebecca wanted you to have this."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crystal, on a simple chain, similar but not identical to the one they had recently gone to great and illegal lengths to retrieve.

"Its for me?" Richie shook his head in denial. "I was never one of her students."

"No," Amanda patted his leg gently. "You were her son. Aren't the most important lessons ion life those we leaner from our Mothers?"

Richie looked at the light reflecting off the various facets of the crystal and reflexively rubbed at his neck.

"You know, I used to have one that looked just like this."

* * *

The past. Paris.

"Hey," Duncan bounded down the steps and into the barge. "Anyone home?"

"Duncan," Tessa didn't look quite as pleased to see him as he had hoped as she came over to greet him. "We did not expect you until tomorrow."

"I finished my business early and thought I would surprise you," he greeted her with a kiss and looked around. "Where's Richie?"

Tessa bit her lip and regarded him worriedly. "He is in his room."

Duncan sighed. Taking in the troubled teenager had been the best thing he had ever done. Richie had added so much to their lives. But like any teenager he still made mistakes.

"What happened this time?"

"It wasn't his fault." Tessa defended him stoutly.

* * *

Duncan trod softly as he approached the teenager's small room under the wheelhouse. Tessa had promised to have his guts for garters if he woke the lad when he was sleeping. As he pushed open the door the first thing he saw, where the dark bruises on Richie's face, which was stark white against his pillow. As he approached, he took in the thin swollen marks around the lad's neck, swallowing involuntarily at so obvious an injury to such a vulnerable part of the pre-Immortal's anatomy.

"Mac?" Richie turned his head to look at the Immortal.

"Hey, Tough guy," Duncan settled himself on the bed. Richie looked tired and he could see small lines of pain around his eyes. A jar of prescription painkillers and a glass of water, sat on the nightstand. Duncan picked them up, checked the dosage and tipped two pills into his hand, offering them with the glass. It was a sign of how bad Richie was feeling that he swallowed the pills without protest.

"How are you?"

"I'm okay," Richie looked down at the blankets. "Though you weren't gonna be back till tomorrow?"

"I got an earlier flight," Duncan dismissed that. "What happened to you?"

Richie looked up at him. "Didn't Tessa tell you already?"

"She told me you were mugged," Duncan nodded. He picked up one injured hand from where it lay on top of the blankets and rubbed his thumb over the bruised and swollen knuckles. "She didn't say that you were daft enough to fight them."

"Hey, that stuff was mine," Richie insisted. "They had no right to take it."

"That 'stuff' was insured," Duncan scolded. "You, on the other hand could have been seriously hurt. You were hurt."

"Its just a few cuts," Richie protested. The unspoken, _I've had worse_ hung in the air between them. "Besides, Angie bought me that crystal for my 16th birthday. It meant a whole lot to me."

"Rich," Tessa had shown him a copy of the Police report. The four men, who witnesses had said were all older and heavier than the boy, had punched him to the ground, before stealing his wallet and ripping the crystal on its leather thong from around his neck. "Do you still not know how much _you_ mean to us?"

"Aw, c'mon Mac. You wouldn't be saying that if it was Tessa's rings and stuff they wanted." Richie protested.

"Indeed, I would. Things, even expensive or sentimental things, are never more important than people," Duncan wanted to make this quite clear. "You get robbed you give them what they want. Do you hear me? No thing, no object, is worth putting yourself in danger for. Are we clear?"

Richie scowled at him. "Crystal, alright?"

"Well good," Duncan softened his tone and ruffled the lad's hair in acknowledgement of the sour pun. "I'm sorry, Rich. I know some things can't be replaced. I just happen to think that you are one of them."

The frank affection earned him a small smile, which faded rapidly as Richie cast his mind back to the attack.

"I don't even know they wanted it, it wasn't like it was worth anything. Not to anyone else."

"I don't know," Duncan struggled to comfort him. "But I'm sure Angie wouldn't have wanted you to get hurt over it, would she?"

"I guess not."

Looking down at him, trying to be brave, Duncan smiled softly, truth be told he was proud that the lad had had enough gumption to stand up to his attackers. Such courage deserved more reward than a scolding.

"Tell you what, why don't we invitee Angie to come and stay for a few days. Then, you'll have something other than the crystal to remember her by?"

"Here? To Paris?" Richie's face lit up.

"Sure, why not?" Duncan smiled. And if Richie and Tessa were busy showing Angie the sights, they would be far less likely to notice his absence as he looked for the men who had done this to his lad.

* * *

The present.

"A few days later, it was handed in at a local Police Station," Richie told Amanda. "At the time, I just figured they realised that it was worthless and threw it away. It was years before Mac fessed up that he had put himself in the line of fire and gone looking. A bit too kinda do as I say not as I do, you know?"

"Did he say anything, about the men who attacked you?"

"They weren't Immortals, if that's what you're thinking. Why?"

Amanda told him.

* * *

"What's taking her so long?" Duncan paced across the sand. "I thought they'd be safely back here by now."

"They do have a lot to talk about," Methos allowed. "And Amanda, won't let him do anything foolish."

"She might not be able to stop him," Duncan pointed out. Richie had grown up a lot in the last hundred years. The days when all Amanda had to do was flutter her eyelashes and the lad was putty in her hands were long gone.

"Well, there .. " Methos broke off at the wash of an approaching Immortal.

The next minute Amanda, breathless and dishevelled from running so fast over rough ground, burst into the small circle of light cast by their campfire.

"He's gone. I tried to stop him. But he wouldn't listen. You have to come. Quickly. Before its too late."

"Gone where?" Duncan demanded.

"To challenge Ares."

"What!" Duncan exclaimed. He glared at Methos. "I thought you said she woulda let him do anything foolish."

"Of course, this is all my fault." Methos groused.

"Will you just come?" Amanda demanded.

Even as they ran Methos was calculating the time that Richie would have taken to get to the clearing. Then he would have had to dig Ares out. Next, pulling out the Ivanhoe, he would have to wait for the other to revive. Only then could the challenge be issued and all would be lost. Because there was no way Richie was ready for this. Not yet.

"Tell me, Amanda dear," he hissed, from between clenched teeth, as he ran. "What exactly did you say to him that made him think that this was remotely a good idea?"

"I told him about the crystal," Amanda admitted unhappily. "I thought it would help."

"Oh sure," Methos agreed. "Help him get himself killed."

Up ahead he heard the clash of swords and knew that battle had already been joined.

* * *

Trivia Note – when I was researching this, (yes contrary to appearances I really do that!), I checked Lady and the Tiger as I recalled that Mac and Amanda said they hadn't met for a looong time – about 70 years. But later in the series she appears in The Return of Amanda, which has them meeting in 1936. So, you can make up your own date I guess!


	10. Ch 10

AN Jodi, - sorry, couldn't find your e-mail, to reply but thanks so much the review. You have a point about Richie recognising Methos, I was working on the idea that Richie clearly didn't recognise that 'Jack Ryan' was a fake and thus perhaps hadn't spent that much time with Jack. I know he claimed not to remember what Emily looked like in the series, but I figured that he probably had spent enough time with her that he would recognise her if he saw her again. Does that make sense?

* * *

With steel whistling above his head, Richie ducked and threw himself left, narrowly missing getting scorched in the fire. As Ares' sword cut through empty air, he rolled, rising to his feet and taking a ready stance, before his opponent could attack again. The two circled each slowly.

"You think you can best me boy?" Ares taunted. "You should have left me dead."

"That can be arranged." Richie made a sharp thrust, which Ares neatly sidestepped.

"Then you'll need to do better than that."

Richie stepped back and eyed him over his blade. In his bloodstained and sand soiled clothing the recently revived Immortal looked exactly like the ghoulish creatures from the comic books he used to read as a kid.

"Now is that nice? When I am just trying to get acquainted?" He challenged, trying to sound braver than he really felt. Jeez, this guy was older than Methos and Ares' harsh bark of laughter didn't exactly do much for his self-esteem.

"Your bravado doesn't fool me boy. I've been watching you since the day you were born. I know you better than you know yourself. I can smell your fear."

His sword flashed in the sunlight and Richie narrowly avoided loosing a hand.

"Missed." he gloated, albeit in a slightly higher octave than he would have liked.

"So, I did," Ares purred smoothly, advancing. Another flash and Richie swiftly pulled his ankle out of harm's way.

"You wanna dance, or fight?" he challenged, as he pivoted around, only to find Ares close on his heels.

"What I want is to kill you." Ares vowed darkly.

"Oh well, just so long as we have that clear." Richie attacked, driving Ares back, one two, three feet, before a sharp, unexpected pain registered itself in his thigh. He staggered against the burning sensation, trying to keep his footing in the loose desert sand but it was too unstable. He went down, raising his sword as he did, to lock with Ares' blade as it descended.

"Nice, isn't it?" Ares turned his wrist to display the retracting dagger, which had shot out from a sheath on his wrist.

"Oh yeah, gotta put that on my Christmas list." Richie breathed through the pain. He lunged fiercely, trying to take Ares by surprise before he was fully healed, but the Ancient countered his attacks smoothly, almost lazily and Richie knew he was holding back.

"How long shall I keep you alive?" Ares wondered. "A few days? A few months? Maybe a century or two if you amuse me."

"You think that .." Richie panted.

"Hold." Methos voice commanded.

The multiple thrum of Immortal presence brought both combatants to a stand still, eying each other warily across the flickering circle of firelight that marked their arena as the others approached.

"You're too late," Ares greeted Methos without looking at him. "Battle has been joined. His head is mine."

"You can't kill him."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across Ares face. "Oh, I think I can. Believe me, he's not that good. You really should have taught him better."

"Its not time," Methos reminded him. "Not everything is in place."

"So, I come into what is mine a little sooner than you expected," Ares was unrepentant. "He challenged me."

"Exactly."

For the first time Ares looked less than assured. Then he scowled. "A minor detail. It is of no consequence."

"Do you really want to take that risk?" Methos asked. "If the last battle could be decided on a mere challenge, there would have been nothing to stop you killing him when he was an infant. That's why it cannot take place until all the conditions are met. This is neither that time nor that place. If you kill him now, who is to say whether the Prophecy will be fulfilled?"

"And if I'm willing to take that risk?" Ares twirled his sword dangerously.

"Then the Prophecy will be null and void and there will be nothing to stay my blade," Methos hissed. "And I will cut you down before you can even recover from his Quickening. And make no mistake, I will enjoy it."

"And if I decide to put up my sword, you'll simply let me walk away?" Ares mocked. "To live, grow stronger, to fight your precious child another day?"

"Yes," Methos nodded. Much as he hated to see this man live, the only way to be sure that the outcome of the Prophecy was in their favour was to obey the rules to the letter.

"Hey, hold on a minute," Richie protested. "Don't I get a say in any of this?"

"Absolutely not." Methos didn't so much as spare him a glance.

"Rich, let him go," Duncan counselled, more reasonably. "If you don't have to fight. Don't."

"He's right, Richard," Amanda put in. "You don't want to rush into these things. There's still plenty of time," She made a face. "Well, maybe, not plenty of time. But some."

"What? Weeks? Days? Months?" Richie deliberately let a little of his fear show. "He's zillions of times older than me. Do you really think a couple of centuries would make any difference now?"

It worked. A cool sadistic smirk settled across Ares features. "You know, I don't think I will kill you today. I think I'll let you live with your fear a while. Begin to feel it eating you up inside. And know every morning when you wake up that today might be the day that I come for you. For rest assured, little one, we will cross blades again."

With that he put up his blade with a little mocking bow and began to make his way back to where he had tethered his horse.

"On one condition." Richie's voice stopped him on the very edge of the firelight.

"You dare to make conditions to me?" Half in shadow Ares expression was unreadable, but the amusement in his voice was clear.

"Leave my family alone," Richie's tone was resolute. "If you or any of your goons come after them, I swear I will find a way to screw up this Prophecy even if it means I have to chop my own damn head off."

* * *

They all watched in silence as Ares disappeared into the night and then for some time nobody spoke. Richie walked over to a canteen of water left by the fire and took a long drink.

"He's good." He offered, as if nothing much out of the ordinary had happened.

"I could have _told_ you that." Methos growled.

"Yeah, well," Richie put the top back on the canteen and put it aside. "I like to see stuff for myself."

"And the other reasons were?" Duncan asked quietly.

Richie glanced sharply in his direction. Sometimes he wished the man didn't know him nearly so well. "You know. Just for once I'd like to be the dark, brooding, one. Its not like you guys tell me every teensy tiny detail of your lives." He protested.

Duncan blinked at the genuine edge of frustration in Richie's tone.

"Since when did almost getting yourself killed become a teensy tiny detail?" Methos cut in.

"Since when has 'almost' even counted?" Richie retorted. "Besides, if your precious prophecy is right, its not like I was ever in any danger."

"Oh, I don't know," Methos tone was smooth and dangerous. "Pull another stunt like that and I'll run you through myself."

"You know," Richie turned on him. "I'm such an idiot. I actually thought it was pretty cool that this five thousand year old dude might just give a damn about me. But all this time, all you've actually cared about was this damn Prophecy."

"It wasn't like that." Methos attempted to defend himself.

"The tell me how it was, Daddy, cos I sure as hell don't understand."

"I did what I had to do."

"You left me! You left me with people who hurt me and _used_ me," Richie hissed. "Now maybe that kinda thing passed for normal with you and your pervy friends back in ancient times, but .."

Methos didn't think. He didn't plan. Instead, he just reacted as the strain and worry of the past few days boiled over and his fist flashed out, causing a crimson stream to spurt from Richie's, now broken nose. His eyes widening in shock, Richie pressed one hand to his injured nose, turned on his heel, and fled.

"Well, you certainly know how to win a person over, don't you?" Amanda observed dryly in the silence that followed.

"Oh bugger." Methos scrubbed at his face, looking more distraught than Duncan had even seen him. "I'd better go after him."

"No." Duncan stopped him. "Let me go."

"By all the god's Macleod, I only want to talk to him," Methos protested. "Whatever else you think of me, you have to know I've only ever done what I thought was best for him."

"I know," Despite his own feelings of jealously he couldn't deny that Methos proven time and again just how much he loved Richie. He gave a slight smile, to soften his next words. "That's why you are going to let me talk to him."

* * *

Which wasn't to say that Duncan thought getting through to Richie would be an easy task. Even in the dim light of the candles the lad's entire body language screamed 'go away'. He could hardly blame him. It had been one hell of a week.

"Mac, don't," Richie's voice was dangerously expressionless. "Just don't, okay?"

"We don't have to talk," Duncan assured him before he could be rebuffed. "I just thought you might like some company."

Richie's scowl didn't waver, but he turned his head away in silent acceptance of the Scot's presence. Duncan settled down on the ground. Beside him Richie sat silent and absolutely still. The nervous gestures that as a teenager would have screamed his inner turmoil to the world were utterly absent. If his sharp eye hadn't been able to detect the faintest rise and fall of his chest, Duncan would have sworn the lad wasn't even breathing. It was moments like these that reminded Duncan that, despite his physical appearance, the lad wasn't wholly a teenager any more.

"Here," Duncan nudged him and passed over a handkerchief so Richie could wipe the blood from his face.

"Thanks." Richie accepted it, but only scrubbed half-heartedly at the blood before he sighed and dropped his hand into his lap.

Duncan gave him a few minutes, but when it became clear that Richie wasn't going to talk, he took a deep breath and dove straight in.

"Do you remember Cortes?"

"I thought we didn't haven't to talk?" Richie wasn't looking at him, but Duncan decided to take the note of wry acceptance in his voice as a good sign.

"We don't," He shrugged. "But I think you need to."

"Its not like Cortes is someone I'm ever likely to forget." Richie answered..

* * *

The Past

Duncan sighed as he let himself into the empty Antique Store. It wasn't his fault that the plane had been delayed, or that traffic on the freeway had been nose to tail. But that hadn't cut much ice with Tessa. A quick glance across the alley to where Tessa's Mercedes was usually parked told him that the Frenchwoman had carried out her threat and gone to the gallery opening with Richie. He'd have to make it up to her later. His mouth quirked in a rueful smile, he'd probably have to make it up to Richie as well, the lad had probably taken none too kindly to being dragged along.

He dropped his bag in the middle of the floor in the Store and wandered over to the office to pick up the pile of mail on the desk. Checking through the letters that arrived in his absence he made his way to the kitchen for something more appetising than airline fare. As he crossed the room the thin steady thrum that announced the presence of a pre-immortal snaked up his spine. Frowning slightly, Duncan tossed the mail on the kitchen counter and veered towards the teenager's room. Raising his hand to knock, he paused.

Usually, the sound of his music or the rise and fall of the TV announced Richie's presence to the world. He was only quiet when he was asleep, sick, or up to no good. Nine pm was far too early for the nocturnal teenager to be in bed. And Tessa would have told him if the lad was sickening for something.

Dropping his hand, Duncan soundlessly pushed the door open and surveyed the room. The usual collection of dirty laundry used coffee cups and random items apparently essential to teenage life in this decade met his eyes. But to his surprise there was no sign of the lad. Edging his way silently into the room, Duncan honed in on the source of the faint buzz.

Richie was in the closet.

Duncan's features creased with displeasure. He could only think of handful of reasons why a teenager would take advantage of parental absence to hide him self away. Richie had said he didn't do drugs and Duncan believed him. And if Richie had a girl in there, Duncan was pretty sure they would have been making a lot more noise. Which left Tessa's stash of cigarettes or his supply of sprits as likely candidates. A quick sniff assured him the lad wasn't in danger of setting light to himself in there, so he turned away intending to see what, if anything, was missing from the liquor cabinet before he confronted him.

He was halfway across the room when he saw the three drops of crimson blood on the floor.

"_Richie_."

In an instant, he had turned on his heel and wrenched open the closet. Blinking rapidly to help his eyes adjust to the dim light he saw the teen huddled on the floor, his eyes very blue in his pale face.

"Richie lad, what's wrong?"

His only response was a widening of the eyes in terror as the lad tried to press himself even further into the dark corner.

"Richie, its me." Duncan dropped his tone to its most soothing.

"I'm sorry," Richie whimpered.

"Hey, hey." Hunkering down so he was at eye level with the teen, Duncan ignored the fact that they were having a conversation in a closet. The only way he was going to get Richie out of there right now was by brute force and that wasn't on the agenda. First things first, he had to know about the blood. He scrutinised the teen. Richie was clearly shaken but there was no obvious sign of physical injury.

"Are ye hurt lad?"

If Richie noted the thickening of his brogue, an obvious sign of the Scot's deep concern, he gave no sign of it.

"No. I'm sorry. I tried."

"You tried to get hurt?" Duncan teased, hoping to raise a smile.

Instead, Richie looked absolutely terrified.

"I'm sorry. I tried to stop him, but he didn't care about me. He only wanted Tessa."

* * *

The present

"At first," Richie swallowed hard as he relieved the memory. "I thought he was gonna kill me. Then, afterwards I figured you were gonna kill me for not getting myself killed."

"Even if you had thrown yourself on his sword to protect her, he would still have taken her." Duncan said, more bluntly than he had dared with the traumatised teen. "And you would have died for nothing."

"I should have done something," Richie berated himself. "I should have refused to deliver his message. Something."

"And every time you defied him, he would have hurt Tessa again," Duncan vetoed that. "In curbing your own feelings and obeying his commands you did what you could to spare her future harm. That took maturity. I admired you for that."

"I should have killed the bastard."

"You were seventeen years old and mortal," Duncan reminded him. "If you had gone up against a man as old and experienced as Cortes it would have been tantamount to committing suicide. You just weren't ready."

"So, instead I get to be responsible for maybe getting you killed?" Richie demanded, then winced as if he had let slip more than he had intended.

Duncan sighed he had feared this was where the lad was coming from. "Cortes was the one who decided to take Tessa hostage. I was the one who accepted his challenge." He shrugged. "I fail to see how you were responsible for any of that."

"Cos I was the one dumb enough to let Cortes take Tessa out from under my nose."

"Rich, when I die, it will be because of choices I've made. Even if you are part of those choices, that still doesn't make you responsible for my death."

"No?" Richie laughed hollowly. "What about Connor's, or Amanda's. Hey, I might even get to rack up the Old Timer's death, imagine that. All those centuries and I'm the one who brings him down."

"Rich .."

"Amanda told me. At the end, the last, whatever, the number of Quickenings will get too much for any one person to hold, " Richie pulled out Rebecca's crystal and turned it over in his hands. "That's when we're all gonna have to wear these. The pieces of the crystal will act as a conduit for all our Quickenings. She isn't sure how its supposed to work, but apparently it means we'll share each others strengths and weaknesses."

"So, when you win against Ares, we all win?" Duncan realised.

"And if I loose," Richie's quiet tone, revealed what he was really worried about. "We all die."

"So, better to get yourself killed now and let the rest of us fend for ourselves?" Duncan guessed.

"Better than being responsible for all your deaths."

Duncan sighed. The lad had always cared more about his friends than his own safely. It was a trait that he admired, but it was also the one that gave him the greatest cause for worry. "Alright, answer me this. Do you choose to be the focus of this Prophecy?"

"Like hell," Richie snorted. "I would have chosen you."

"Then how can you be held responsible for any of this?"

"Maybe because I'll be the one holding the big, sharp sword?"

"I dunno Rich," Duncan butted his shoulder. "Think about it. If we have all your strengths and weaknesses then you will have ours also."

"You really think?" Richie brightened slightly. The idea that he would be carrying the combined strength of his friends into battle with him sudden made the prospect seem slightly less impossible.

"And after today's performance, Ares will be far more likely to underestimate you," Duncan said dryly.

"You noticed that, huh?" Richie squirmed.

"Well, quite aside from the fact that you rushed in like an idiot," Duncan scolded. "I haven't seen you parry that broadly since you were first my student." He gave the lad a knowing look. It was a good strategy, if a dangerous one, to lull your opponent into thinking that you were less of a swordsman than you truly were. It encouraged them to get complacent and that bred mistakes.

"He already thinks I'm just a kid. I didn't think it would do any harm to live down to his expectations some." Richie defended himself. "A guy's gotta use what he has, right?"

Duncan slipped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him in close. "Then don't run off and try and solve this all by yourself. We're all in this together, Tough Guy. Let us help you."

"Thanks Dad," Richie smiled softly as he leant into his strong grip, taking comfort from his presence. If he lived to be a thousand he would never understand what he had done to deserve this man as a father.

But then what did that make Methos?

"I have to talk to him, don't I?" He sighed.

"I think so," Duncan agreed. They were all in this together, after all. "Although, you might want to wipe the rest of the blood off first."

"Actually," Richie considered. "I don't think I will. I've got a better idea."


	11. Ch 11

Richie watched as the Stealth transport landed without so much as a whisper of sound, as it was meant to do. As the cockpit unsealed he raised an eye at the pilot's heavily embroidered robes.

"Nice threads. Hope I didn't tear you away from a hot date."

Connor Macleod disengaged the power and hopped out onto the sand before he answered.

"Only if you still consider the President of the United States to be, what did you call her? A salacious babe."

"The President," Richie stopped. In his need to talk to the elder Macleod, he had never stopped to think that he might have been busy. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting how high powered you are these days."

"Don't be, from your call I gathered it was important."

"You could say that," Richie looked over his shoulder at the Stealth. "Why do the military always have all the best toys?"

"Why are you changing the subject?"

"I'm not, not really." Richie ran a hand through his hair. Connor gave him a long searching look and then seemed to come to a decision.

"Walk with me."

They had gone several hundred yards when Richie could stand the silence no longer. "Its like this .."

"Walk, don't talk," Connor ordered sharply. "You'll never make it in the military if you can't learn to follow orders."

Richie supposed he shouldn't be surprised. That was the trouble with family. They knew you too well. Still.

"Who said I wanted you as my superior officer?"

"Well, you're too young to pass as mine," Connor smirked. "And no one else would put up with your attitude."

"What attitude?" Richie spread his hands defensively. "I'm being nice, whilst you, _Uncle_ Connor, are being a pain in the butt."

"That's Uncle Connor, Sir, to you and you're still talking."

"I .." Richie began, then resolutely clamped down his jaw. If Connor wanted to play this game then he'd bite.

He had to admit it helped, the utter silence of the desert night soothed hisraw nerves and the vast, sparkling universe above, somehow made him feel less like the fate of the world was on his shoulders and more like a small cog, in a much larger, universal design.

"You don't have to do it alone." Connor's voice broke the silence.

"You know?"

"Duncan called me. And Amanda."

Not Methos then. Richie didn't actually voice the thought, but Connor saw it in the way his shoulders tensed.

"I would have done the same thing, you know."

"Which?" Richie's eyes flashed. "Hit me or left me?"

"In those circumstances? Both."

"Alright, so maybe I shouldn't have said what I did. But that doesn't change the fact that he left me," Richie swallowed, hearing the tight tone of raw pain in his voice. "I was just a little kid and he left me. How could he do that?"

"Probably for the same reason that he's getting ready to leave here now," Connor shrugged. "Because he loves you and he will cause himself any amount of pain if that's what's best for you." At Richie's sharp look he continued. "He raised you from a baby. Do you think it was that easy to just walk away?"

* * *

A smile played across Amanda's lips as she walked past the horse lines and caught the distinctive earthy smell. She had never understood why some people complained about the odour. Horses were such graceful, beautiful creatures, with those liquid brown eyes and adorable expressions; it seemed a small price to pay. Besides, some of her best memories were in stables, frolicking in the straw with some handsome beau. Or in earlier, harder times, when they were a rare place of warmth and safe obscurity for a cold and frightened child in a harsh world.

She blinked back tears the sudden flash of memory, borne too vividly on the rich, fruity, aroma, of the girl she was, huddled in the straw, a gnawing hunger in her belly and an empty place in her heart where love should be. She wished she could tell the child that love would find her. Rebecca would find her. And Methos.

"Amanda?"

The sudden presence of an Immortal caused her to turn quickly on her heel, aghast at having let her guard down so completely, only to relax in the next instant as she recognised the familiar voice.

"Methos," She looked at the figure emerging from the darkness, pack in one hand and the reins of his horse in the other. "You're _leaving_?"

"Its for the best." Methos turned away from her as he checked his girth and slung his over the withers of his mount.

"For him or for you?"

He stiffened and she knew she had hit a nerve. But he gave no reply as he put his foot in the stirrup and slung himself smoothly into the saddle gathering up his reigns to urge the bay forward. She put her hand on his thigh, realising that he could ride her down, but knowing that he would not.

"You know, you don't always have to put everyone else's happiness before your own."

He didn't deny it. How could he when she knew him so well.

"This isn't about me. It never has been."

"Just talk to him."

"Oh, of course. That will work." Methos retorted sarcastically. "I mean, look how well things well last time."

"Have you even tried?"

Methos pressed his lips together and looked out towards the darkness. He wanted to. God, of all the horrors he had committed during his life, the look on the face of one small boy as he left him to an uncertain fate burned in his memory.

"Maybe in a decade or two. He's not ready to listen to me right now."

"You don't think so?" Amanda smiled, as she sensed the buzz of an approaching Immortal.

* * *

Now he was here Richie had no idea what he was going to say. For once, Methos looked equally ill at ease as he slid off his mount and passed the bay's reigns to Amanda.

"C'mon sweetie," Amanda rubbed the horse's nose. "Let's go find you some nice oats."

As the soft sound of the horses hooves slapping in the sand faded away, Richie swallowed hard and opened his mouth.

"How's your nose?" Methos beat him to it.

"Its OK." Instinctively, Richie wagged the cartilage, even through he had broken his nose enough time over the decades to know that it healed perfectly straight every time.

"Not much of a birthday present."

"Yeah well, its not my birthday for another week or so. You've got time to shop." Richie stalled.

"Actually," Methos looked with mild interest at his left foot. "The authorities were a couple of days out on that."

"They were?" Richie looked up in genuine surprise. "I'll try to remember that the next time I get a new life."

Methos flinched at the caustic edge to his tone. Richie knew he was supposed to be trying to make things better. But after all this time, the certain knowledge that someone could tell him when his birthday was, when he first talked, got his first tooth, all that kid stuff, was kinda overwhelming.

"I need to know," Richie swallowed hard and tried to keep his tone even. "You left me. I was just a little kid and you left me. How could you do that?"

"It was easy," Methos shrugged. "After five thousand years you don't get attached to anything very much."

Richie gave him a sharp look, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I don't buy that."

"Really?" Methos arched a brow that clearly said, 'you could have fooled me.'

Richie supposed he deserved that.

"You gotta understand, all my life I always thought my Dad left me cos he didn't love me. I guess I never figured that he left me because he did."

Methos looked up, not for the first time astonished by the depth of human compassion this youngster was capable of.

"You were five," Methos excused him. "How could you know?"

"I should have, after all these years. Everything you've done for me. I should never have said all that stuff I did. You deserve better."

"Oh, I think I got far better than I deserved." Methos clasped his shoulder. "Rebecca would have been so proud of you."

"I wish I could have met her." Richie sighed.

"You look like her," Methos allowed. "Athough, there's a lot of your father in you."

"Do you mind? About Mac, I mean?"

"Only that he's annoying and insufferable. He has the right to be your father."

"Have you ever? I mean .." Richie hesitated.

"Had children? A few. When I was younger."

Richie wondered what the odds were of any of Methos children surviving this long. Not that great.

"They're all dead now, of course," Methos confirmed his fears. "Although, you met one of them."

"I did?" Richie started. "Who? When?"

"When you were still 'mortal'" You beat him at chess using a move I taught you."

"Darius?" Richie realised. "Darius was your son?"

"One of them," Methos nodded. "One of the few of whom I can be truely proud. The greatest measure of our children is how much they teach us. I raised him to be a warrior. From the age of twelve he fought beside me in the field. When he first changed, I washed my hands of him. What did I want to hear of his ways of peace. But in time, he helped me find myself again."

"He wasn't meant to die, was he?" Richie realised. "I mean, in the Prophacy?"

"Not like that." Methos answered shortly.

"So, it can be changed?" Richie pressed.

Methos gave him a level look. "All things can be changed, the question is, whether they will be changed for the better."

"You don't think not dying is better?"

"It depends," Methos answered cripticaly, slipping an arm around Richie's shoulder. "Come on, I need a beer."

"Out here?" Richie shook his head, as he fell into step beside him. "You'll be lucky."

"I was thinking we could 'borrow' Connor's ride."

"Or we could just behead ourselves and save him the trouble."

"It's a stealth transport, its not like he's going to hear us. Besides, we can be there and back before he even knows it's gone."

Richie considered that.

"You can drive." Methos offered.

"Deal."

…

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Duncan asked as he watched Richie pack up his few belongings.

"Probably not," Richie looked for a place to stuff his socks. "Connor is going to have far too much fun bossing me around."

"Then why do it?" Duncan asked lightly.

Richie knew there was more behind his question than Duncan wanted to admit. Much as Richie had admired the heroism in his elder's stories and admired their efforts to do what was right in times of war, he had never shown the slightest interest in joining the military before.

"You guys can only teach me so much," Richie rolled his shirt into a ball and squeezed it into a gap. "If I'm going to beat Ares, I need to learn to think like a soldier."

"Rich," Duncan waited until his son stopped what he was doing and turned to look at him. "I admire what you are trying to do, but don't loose sight of the fact that your greatest strength is that you are unique. That makes you unpredictable. Which makes you harder to beat."

"I'll try to remember that." Richie nodded. "But I still need to do this."

"I know." Duncan reached out and closed the bag for him.

"Besides, maybe I'll finally find out some of this secret stuff that Connor has been working on these last few years." Richie joked.

"Maybe." Duncan smiled. "But not tonight."

"Mac?

"You didn't think we were going to let you leave without celebrating your birthday, did you?"


	12. Ch 12

"You couldn't have put the bloody Gate on the other side of the water, Macleod?" Methos groused, as he transferred his belongings from the trans-pad, to the waiting canoe in which they would complete their journey to the Island. To his mind, the whole point of modern site-to-site technology was that it took you where you wanted to go. Instantly. Not with a twenty minute canoe ride at the end of it.

"That land's protected. What's wrong? Afraid of a little exercise?" Duncan held up a paddle.

"I used up my lifetime quota of rowing several centuries ago."

"It's a twenty minute paddle across the lake. Not the forging of the Aegean Sea."

"Be grateful for small mercies," Richie reached over and snagged the paddle out of the Scot's hand as he hopped down into the canoe. "He only put in the indoor plumbing about ten years ago."

Duncan rolled his eyes at their student's attempt to diffuse the lingering tension between his two 'fathers'. "A bathroom suite does _not _need a sonic spa to constitute indoor plumbing."

"Says you."

"You be grateful, brat," Methos dropped his bag in the canoe with one hand and pulled the paddle out of Richie's hand with the other. The kid looked much better but that didn't mean he should be over exerting himself. "When I was your age, indoor plumbing wasn't even invented."

"Along with everything else of any use or benefit."

"Not everything." Amanda smirked.

"Its not too late to pick somewhere else to go, you know," Connor cut in. "It is your birthday after all."

"Yes," Amanda added hopefully. "There must be a few places you still haven't visited."

"The Congo?" Methos suggested helpfully.

"I _meant_ in civilization." Amanda pouted.

Richie looked out over the water. Nothing much had changed here since his last visit to the island. Or his first, come to that. This land had been a National Park since before he was born, keeping the communication nets, cramped, high rise housing and those annoying ad pop ups, which used a retina scan and your credit card purchases to reach their target audience, well away from its green shores.

It was almost like being transported back in time.

Almost.

"No, here is fine."

How to explain that he didn't want to do anything that he hadn't done before? Right now, he wanted what was familiar and safe. He wanted to spar with Connor, tease Amanda about her cooking, and try and beat Methos at Poker, just as he had thousands of times before.

"We could go fishing, if you like?" Duncan offered.

"Yeah," Richie smiled at him. "That would be good. Thanks."

As the canoe drifted away from the dock, Richie tipped his head so he could look at his reflection in the water. He had long since got used to the idea that, no matter what he did, he could never look more than late twenties, tops. Which was fine by him, he'd never much wanted to be the CEO of anything and it gave him an excuse to adopt the teenage slang and fashions that so annoyed his elders.

Which was pretty much why he did it.

But he had never in his wildest dreams, imagined that someone like him, rather than well, maybe not Amanda, but certainly Connor, Mac or Methos, would be the one to do battle for the prize.

He wondered what his younger self would have thought.

He would definitely have had a few words to say about the codpiece.

* * *

"You can't be serious." Duncan protested. At long last he had managed to get his kinsman alone and he was determined to address the question that had been eating at him, ever since he had heard the news. "When has Richie ever shown the slightest interest in joining the military? He'll be shot for disobeying orders within the week."

"We don't do that anymore. And it was entirely his idea." Connor countered.

"Of course it was, he's just found out he's supposed to single handily save the world! He's scared out of his wits."

"All the more reason to learn the skills that will equip him to survive. You can't fault his reasoning, Duncan. Ares is a military mastermind, it'll take more than luck and native cunning to defeat him, the boy will need strategy,

"We fight one on one, Connor, with swords. The military hasn't employed those kinds of strategies for almost two hundred years."

"I know that," Connor looked calmly out over the water. "And so does he."

"You think he has another reason?"

"Where best to hide than in plain sight?"

Duncan considered that. There was very little personal privacy in the Military, which would make it very difficult for Ares, to catch Richie alone. Also, working for Connor's Top Secret project, he would be protected by a cordon of security protocols. As a defensive measure, it wasn't foolproof, but it would buy the lad some time. He supposed it wasn't as if he was joining the Infantry.

"What is it exactly that you do there anyway?"

"I can't tell you that, Duncan. That's why it's Top Secret. Don't worry, I'll take good care of the lad."

"I'll warrant Methos knows."

"Then ask him," Connor suggested, inclining his head towards where Methos hovered on the edge of the clearing, like a dark shadow. The elder Macleod rose to his feet, casually brushing the leaves from his clothes. "But when you do, you'd do well to bear in mind that there is another reason that your bonnie lad is running off to join the circus as it were. "

"I know." Duncan sighed. Torn between his loyalty to Duncan and his feelings towards Methos, it was no wonder that Richie had turned to his Uncle Connor, for safe harbour.

"Sort it out Duncan," his teacher's advice was direct. "Lord knows the lad has enough to worry about without you two bickering over him like children with a prized toy."

* * *

It sounded simple. But there were still so many questions to which he wanted, needed, answers.

"Would you ever have told us, if I hadn't found that journal?"

"You did find it. As you were meant to." Methos was infuriatingly calm.

"After almost one hundred years. If you knew you would have to tell us one day, would it have killed you to tell us a bit sooner? You know what it would have meant to Richie, to me. How could you see us every day and not tell us?"

"I'm sorry Macleod, Lord knows, I know what it is to lose a son, but it wasn't my decision to make. If Rebecca had wanted you to know you were a father back then, don't you think she would have told you herself?"

"She didn't want me to know?" Duncan stiffened.

_Well, obviously not_. Methos didn't actually say the words. But then he didn't need to. Rebecca had had several opportunities to tell Duncan the truth. But even when Amanda, had told her that he had taken a new student, she had held her peace.

"Did she know?" Duncan managed. "Before I went to France, did she know that she was pregnant?"

The buzz of an approaching Immortal made them both turn.

"Ah," Richie stepped hesitantly into the clearing, taking in the tension between the two men. "Connor said I should come out here and check that you two weren't killing each other. I thought he was kidding. Obviously not."

"Go on back to the house, Rich," Duncan commanded. "We'll be along in a minute. We just have a few things to sort out here."

"The memory's the first to go huh, Mac?" Richie advanced. "That line never worked on me when I was a kid. Its not about to work now."

Duncan looked at Methos. "I would have thought you of all people would have raised him to respect his elders."

"Its not like I could tell him I was five thousand years old."

"You didn't have any problem, letting him think you were his father."

"Oh please, like that matters," Richie cut in. "I had so many fathers, when I was growing up, I pretty much lost count. Sure, most of them were bastards, but a few were pretty good. You," he turned on Macleod," always said you were glad I had other people who looked out for me."

"And you," he turned on Methos. "How many other kids do I have to share you with? Amanda? Darius? How many others did you clock up over five thousand years? Do you see me complaining? No, cos life isn't like that and it is possible to love more than one person at a time. Right?"

He looked from one to the other.

"Right?"

"How did you get to be the one who is right all the time?" Methos smiled.

"Just lucky, I guess," Richie shrugged. "Mac?"

"I'm sorry, Rich," Duncan looked sharply away, his jaw set and Richie's heart sank. Then the Immortal turned back to him, his eyes soft with affection. "I just .. It seems like I only just found you." He reached out and cupped his hand under Richie's chin, rubbing his thumb along his jaw. "Nothing in my life has made be more proud than being your father. Its hard to accept I might have to share that role"

"Its not like we just met. You've known me nearly all my life."

"There's never enough time, Rich."

"Still, you gotta admit, Methos did a good job laying the groundwork. I mean, a was a pretty nice kid when you met me, right?"

"You were a pretty amazing kid," Duncan vowed, truthfully. Pulling him in for a hug, he looked over the lad's shoulder at Methos. "I should thank you."

"By all the gods, Macleod, haven't you been listening to a word I've said? You don't have to thank me. We are _all_ connected. He's my family too."

"He is? I mean, I am?" Richie turned around. "You mean, cos of Rebecca, right?"

Methos said nothing.

"Oookay," Richie started ticking candidates off on his fingers. "So, its not Rebecca, or Amanda, cos that would just be gross, right? What about Darius?"

"Darius? What about Darius?" Duncan frowned.

"Naw," Richie dismissed that. "He was a priest. Aren't they supposed to be like virgins?"

"Not quite," Methos decided now was hardly the time to educate Richie on the whys and wherefores of the Catholic Church's varied positions over the centuries in respect of married priests. "Besides, Darius entry into the Church pre-dated the tradition of celibacy."

"Tradition?" Richie spluttered. "I thought it was like a holy law or something."

Duncan, ever the teacher, shook his head. "Even when I was a boy, it wasn't exactly unusual for a man of the cloth to take a companion. The child was usually introduced as his nephew. Which caused a whole new problem for the Church, all those nephews looking for livelihoods and lands. That's where the word nepotism comes from."

"So," Richie looked at Methos. "Did Darius ever have any kids?"

"Rich," Duncan swallowed hard. "Why are you asking him?"

"Just the one." Methos nodded.

"Oh, this is too cool."

"Will someone please tell me what is going on?" Duncan demanded

A soft, delighted, smile had spread across Richie's face. "Maybe, you better tell him, Gramps."

The expression on Methos' face was so priceless that Duncan almost missed the wider implication. He looked from Richie to Methos with dawning realisation.

"Darius, Darius, was my father."

* * *

Richie was just putting the final touches to his evening dress, when he felt the soft buzz of an approaching Immortal.

"Need any help?"

Duncan leant against the doorjamb, with two glasses of whiskey, cradled in one hand.

"You know, I'm kinda disappointed that the bow tie went out of fashion." Richie tugged at his robes.

"I thought you hated wearing those things." Duncan came in, passing him one of the glasses and settling himself on the bed.

"Yeah, well," Richie took an appreciative sip of the whiskey. It was warm, smooth and very good. "I liked it when you tied it for me. Made me feel like a real kid."

"That was because, if I had tried to do this," Duncan hopped up and gave Richie a hug, landing a noisy kiss on his curls. "You would have decked me."

"Mac," Richie protested, laughing, as he tried to avoid spilling his drink. "Don't do that, okay?"

"What? This?" Duncan hugged him. "Or this?" A softer, gentle kiss, placed like a benediction on his forehead.

Richie smiled up at him., raising his glass they entwined their arms and drank a warrior toast.

"Love you, Dad."

"Likewise." Duncan tousled his hair, before he finally released him and bounced back onto the bed. Life was good.

"So, have you told Connor yet?" Richie asked, swatting at his hair where Duncan had mussed it.

"Yep. He said he wasn't at all surprised. He always knew that we were true brothers by blood."

"I guess, having different Dads explains why you don't look alike, huh?"

"Probably."

"Although, you'd think though, that Connor might have got a clue before now. I mean, what are the odds that a dude like Ramirez would be just passing through Scotland. I mean its not like its exactly on the way to anywhere."

"Well, he had the completely wrong idea about our Mother. He always thought it was Cassandra."

"Ouch." Richie winced. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm sorry your Mom is dead. But Cassandra is not my idea of a doting Grandma." He didn't have anything against her. But that was one kooky chick that he was happy not to find in his family tree.

"Don't say that to her face. She might turn you into a toad."

"See? My point exactly."

"I thought you were going to get changed for dinner?" Duncan swirled his whiskey around his glass.

"I am changed. See me changed?"

Duncan looked him up and down. "You can't wear that."

"What's wrong with it?"

Duncan threw him a bundle containing a long sleeved T-shirt, a soft flannel shirt and a pair of denim jeans.

"You need to put these on."

* * *

When he finally made it downstairs, Richie was touched to find his friends gathered in the lounge room, similarly attired in twentieth century dress. Amanda was wearing a very short skirt. Methos had his trademark sweater. Connor had even found a pair of white tennis shoes and Duncan was wearing a blue silk shirt, Richie remembered Tessa giving him, that first Christmas together.

"What is all this?"

"Its your birthday party." Amanda told him.

"What's sauce for the goose laddie." Connor grinned.

"Oh, I get it, payback time." When Duncan had turned five hundred, Richie had rented a castle in Scotland and organised a costumed ball, so that the younger Macleod could greet his fifth century in the atmosphere of his youth.

"You look good, Rich." Duncan was looking him up and down with a fond expression that suggested he was recalling some particularly embarrassing moment from Richie's younger days.

"Alright, so I'm hungry, we gonna eat? Anyone else wanna eat?" he pressed on hastily, before the Scot could decide to share.

"No, presents first." Amanda uncurled herself from the sofa, stood up and fetched a large box from the kitchen. Richie frowned at it slightly.

"It's too small to be Madonna gift wrapped." Duncan smirked.

"Hey, if I had known I was actually gonna live to be a hundred, I would have put different things on that list." Richie protested.

"Is this the list you wrote when you eighteen?" Connor grinned.

"Um. You guys didn't actually use any of those things did you?" Richie looked worried. "Cos, you know a dude can change a lot in a hundred years."

"We have noticed." Duncan assured him.

"Although, he hasn't got any tidier." Connor observed.

"Or taller." Methos chipped in.

"Do you mind?" Richie scowled. "At least I don't get the urge to spit on the floor, and sing bawdy songs when I've had one whiskey too many."

"Just open your present Richard," Amanda nudged it a little closer to him. "We promise not to sing."

"Sing?" Richie tugged gently at the box cover. "Why would you even want to .?" He trailed off as he uncovered his gift. "A chocolate cake?" Richie's jaw dropped. "With _frosting_? Oh man, Amanda, you're the best!"

Amanda smiled, genuinely touched by his reaction. The rise of heart disease, diabetes, obesity and other diet related illnesses with the corresponding strain that that this modern day epidemic had put on health providers, had encouraged governments in the developed world to restrict supplies of refined flours, sugars and fats. Such ingredients were not impossible to acquire, just very, very difficult or very expensive.

Richie didn't think it was a good idea to ask exactly how Amanda had come by them. He was fairly sure it wasn't anything legal. So, he settled for safer ground.

"Amanda, honey, I never even knew you could cook." He gave her a rakish grin, to show he was only teasing.

He half expected her to say that Mac had been the one to bake it. But she surprised him.

"Actually, Rebecca taught me. Think of this as our gift to you." She kissed him.

"Me next." Connor produced a small rectangular box from his inside pocket. He tossed the box across the room. Richie caught it cleanly in one hand.

"Looks like a pen." He rattled it. "Sounds like a pen."

"No-one uses pens anymore." Duncan frowned at his kinsman.

"He could try opening it, rather than dissecting it." Connor suggested.

"But this is the best part." Richie rattled it again.

"Its fragile."

"Oh," Richie stopped shaking it and cracked open the box, to reveal a thin metal tube. He had no idea what it was. "Um, well, its shiny."

"It's a sens net device."

"Of course, it is," Richie nodded sagely. Then scowled at Connor. "You want to try that in English?"

"You remember, palm tops," Connor shrugged. This has an encyclopaedia, a personal communication device, a security tracker and a language translator. Among other things."

"Wow," Richie rolled the tube between his fingers. It was lighter than he would have expected. But he couldn't see any buttons on it. "How does it do all that?"

"It fixes itself to the central cortex of your brain."

"What! You are _not _putting that thing in my head. Its enormous."

"That's the syringe laddie. The actual implant is about the size of a grain of rice."

"Oh, well, good."

"I've never seen anything like it," Amanda peered over Richie's shoulder.

"That's because it's a prototype."

"You're using me as a guinea-pig?" Richie protested.

"How many languages do you speak now? Eight? Twelve? You've worked hard, Risteard, but you don't have the centuries we enjoyed to build our knowledge. Just think of this as levelling the playing field a little."

"Here," Methos plucked it out of his hand. "Turn your head."

"Whoa. You're going to do it _now_?" Richie shrank backwards. "Don't I need an anaesthetic or something?"

"Trust me, I'm a doctor."

"Hold on a minute,. What if there are side effects or something? O_uch_." He rubbed at his neck.

"All done." Methos smirked at him. "You want a lollipop?"

"That's it?" Richie blinked. "I don't feel any different."

"It'll take about thirty minutes to take effect," Connor sipped at his drink. "Open your other presents."

"Here, maybe this will cheer you up," Methos passed him a small, squashy packet, wrapped in silver paper.

"Wrapping paper?" Richie blinked. "Where on earth did you find actual wrapping paper?"

"I've been keeping it for a special occasion. I thought this qualified. Are you going to open it or not?"

Richie needed no further urging. He tore eagerly at the shiny paper, ripping it aside to reveal a small, white, stuffed, horse, twin to the one he had lost, long ago.

"Snowy." He breathed, instinctively hugged the little horse tight to his chest. As he looked up into the sympathetic faces of his friends, with tears in his eyes, he flushed. "Um, sorry. I guess I'm a bit old for this."

"None of us ever outgrows the need for love," Duncan's voice offered.

Richie paused as he stared solemnly into the eyes of the little stuffed horse. The words were as applicable to the ancient Immortal as they were to him. He blinked hard at the memories. Feeling his throat close up.

"Thank you," he managed.

"I know," Methos spoke quietly. "That there isn't anything I can do to make up for everything that happened, but this is something that I can do," He produced five leather bound volumes. Richie looked at them and then back at his teacher. Hope dawning in his eyes.

"There's one for each year."

"Oh man," Richie opened one of the journals at random, and an expression of rapt wonder crossed his face as he relived those early days in the little white painted house, with the blue front door.

"I remember this!" He looked up. His were eyes bright with excitement. "Man, how could I ever have forgotten that?"

Methos had made the record as detailed and complete as his absences allowed, encouraging Rebecca to keep up the journal when he was away, on the grounds that he didn't want to miss out on a second of the child's development. But, in his heart he had always feared that they would be split asunder and he wanted to remember those times.

"Richard," Connor interrupted, at last. "You still have one more gift to open."

"Huh? What?" Richie looked around. "Oh yeah." He grinned sheepishly at the others. "I guess I can read these later, huh?"

He carefully set the journal he had been reading aside and looked expectantly at Duncan. "OK, Mac, bring it on."

"Alright," He shifted forward so he was sitting on the end of his seat. "This isn't quite your usual present."

"C'mon Mac, when I was eighteen you got me a motorcycle, when I turned twenty-one you gave me a Rolex, for my thirtieth birthday, you got me a jet and when I turned fifty, you built me a house, you don't do 'usual' presents."

Even so, everyone was surprised when Duncan reached over and picked up the Katana, from where it was lying, in its scabbard, by his chair. He regarded it silently for a long moment, before he spoke, his voice quiet in the hushed room. "I have carried this sword, since it was bequeathed to me in 1778. For all that time, it has been a means to protect my friends, to deny my enemies, to see justice thrive and persecution whither." He unsheathed the blade and turned it formally over his arm, to offer it to Richie. "This is my gift to you."

"Oh my." Amanda breathed.

"Mac," Richie rose to his feet, but instead of reaching out to take the blade, he took a step back as if retreating from a dangerous animal. "I can't take that."

"You can and you will."

"C'mon Mac, one priceless Antique, well two if you count the rapier, is enough for one lifetime. You already gave me Graham Ashe's sword. You think I don't know what that says? Its more than enough, I don't need the Katana."

"Just take it," Duncan ordered. When it looked like Richie was going to refuse again he stood up and put his hand on Richie's shoulder, softening his words with a plea. "Please."

Richie swallowed. He was finding the look of overwhelming love in the Scot's eyes difficult to resist "But why?"

"Because, if this prophecy is correct and you have to face Ares, then I would not have you do it alone. This sword is part of us, and I want you to keep that close," he touched Richie's head, "here," his fingers brushed his chest, lingering over his heartbeat, and "here," he lifted Richie's hand and placed it firmly on the hilt of the Katana.

Richie looked at the offered blade. This was the sword he had reached out in awe to touch when he'd first learnt the secret of Immortals. It was the sword he had secretly wielded on the deck of the barge in Paris, when he thought Macleod wasn't looking, dreaming of a future he couldn't possibly have imagined. It was the sword Mac had used in each and every one of their training sessions using everything he knew to keep Richie safe.

He didn't need the Katana to remember any of that.

But maybe Mac needed him to have it.

His hand closed around the hilt.

* * *

The end of the beginning. Many thanks to all who read and especially reviewed. The full story of Richie's battle with Ares and my take on the Gathering will continue in A Place Out of Time, coming soon. 


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